Refugees in the Manor
by Punzie the Platypus
Summary: AU. It's 1941, during WWII; Katniss and Prim with the three youngest Hawthorne children are being sent into the country, Sussex, to save them from the London Blitz. They arrive into the care of Haymitch Abernathy, a surly drunkard, his bubbly housekeeper, Effie, and his driver, handsome Finnick. Things turn when Katniss finds a blonde-haired Jew hiding in the attic named Peeta.
1. Getting Out of London

_**Soli Deo gloria**_

**DISCLAIMER: I do NOT own the Hunger Games. Here's a little AU, everyone. Hope you like!  
**

_**Katniss's point of view  
**_

_August 24th, 1940_

_Dear Katniss _

_Hey. It's been a while since my last letter. I'm sorry about that. Things can get so hectic on the front lines. We've been traveling through — a lot, bordering — and heading on down to —. Oh, they're going to cut out the names, aren't they? Sorry. Only got one piece of paper.  
_

_It's been all right here. As dirty as can be expected, I've been doing well with my buddies, Mitchell and the two Leegs and Jackson. Boggs is ragging us on a lot. That's fine, though, not that I like it. _

_The food's pretty bad and scarce, and life's messy. That's expected, though, right, Catnip? Prim would shriek if she saw me. I'm always covered in mud, always tired. I've gotten a lot of guard duty. I'd say it's not a dangerous job, but any job in the army is dangerous, Catnip.  
_

_Say hi to Prim for me. I'm sending a letter also to Mother. Hug the boys and Posy for me. _

_See you as soon as I can, Catnip_

_Gale_

This was written over four months ago.

The mail service is so slow here. But that's to be expected. I didn't expect that Gale's next letter would be from so long ago, but I'm not surprised. Enemy lines are harsh, and with everyone running around, it's hard to make sure the soldiers' letters get sent to their proper recipients in good time.

The last letters from my father are on the wooden cabinet, next to the old radio. They're faded, yellowed, wrinkled from my mother's hands clutching them to her chest as she leans back in her rocking chair and sinks into her own world. She's withdrawn from that, thank goodness; a couple of months ago. I find the burden in my chest about finding her unprepared for a blackout to lessen, now that I know she's able to get Prim to the bomb shelter when a siren blares.

The last letter is the most wrinkled. The last evidence of my father's life. He died, as Private Everdeen, in a bombing. I don't even know where. I was never told. I don't even know if my mother was told.

But that was nearly a year ago.

Bombing. Bomb. Blackout. Air raid siren. Suddenly there is noise pounding in my ears, and I look up from my seat, Gale's letter still in my hand, and look out the window. Everything is dark outside; the air is pumped full of the alarm, blaring all over London, calling for all the lights to go out and for all the people to get to their bomb shelters.

"Katniss!" I hear. Prim, my little sister, four years my junior, is racing into the room, her homespun dress rattling about her; her shoes hit the floor with thuds; her hands clutch a very disgusting, angry looking cat.

"Prim, come on," I say, instantly rising from my seat. I grab the stacks of letters and catch her hand and we start running through the house; I can hear her anxious pants as we run down the stairs. The stairs has a window pane, half shaded, that reveals to me the outside. We live in the poorer slums of London, and there is so many bombs dropped around here every night. Each day, we wake up to see what part of the city has been newly decimated. I wonder now if it'll be our part as I draw the curtain back and then tug on Prim's hand. "Come on. We need to get to the bomb shelter."

"Is Mother going to be there? What if she's in the house? Katniss—" Prim says.

Her voice is drowned out by the sound of bombs falling.

We're downstairs in an instant. The place is so bare. We have sold many of our things just to keep the house. Good. Nothing to grab and keep as we race to the bomb shelter. Nothing worth missing if it's blown up.

"She'll be in the bomb shelter, Prim," I say. My voice has a soothing tone. Prim is so young and so easily frightened. I need to keep calm to keep her calm.

The cat, Buttercup, lets out an impatient meow. He's half sliding out of Prim's one arm, which is trembling around his chest. I don't care. Serves the old thing right. He can just sit there and do nothing but be carried around as a burden as we run for our lives through our small garden, which is surrounded by black gates and garbage.

I wrench the door to the shelter open and we fall inside.

I knew it. My mother is here. She looks ghostly from the brightness of the torch she has in her hands. At her feet are supplies she has stored in here. Blankets. Coal. Lanterns. A couple boxes of crackers. Not very much food, though. Rations have gotten tougher since it's winter. January. But even two boxes of crackers are more to be happy for.

"Katniss. Prim," my mother says. She joins Prim on the bed. Prim puts Buttercup down, to his relief, and starts sobbing against my mother's shoulder. Mother puts her arm around her and rubs her shoulder.

I stand by the door and look at the wood. I can feel the vibrations of the bombs. I can hear them detonate. The siren is almost lost in the fight for the crowd of sound in my ears. I close my eyes and try to think what has been bombed now. The bakery? The school? The grocery store? A church? The market? Lots of people's houses. A lot of those.

"Katniss, come sit down," Mother says. I know she wants me to lie down on one of the cots and fall asleep. When I watch the door, I make her nervous.

"Katniss, I want to talk to you about something," she persists.

"What is it?" I say. I stare at the door as hard as I can.

She sighs. Hesitates for a moment. Buttercup scratches the door. If Prim wasn't crying, I might have kicked him. Mother intakes breathe. "I know we have talked about this, but I was thinking, Katniss, that the bombs have gotten worse."

Another denotation. I nod. "I agree."

"Then you'll understand when I say it's time to . . . to send Prim away, to the country," Mother says.

I whirl around. "To the country? By herself?"

"Katniss . . . she doesn't have to go by herself. You . . . can go with her."

I don't want to go to the country. It'll be even more open for bombs to come. Mother says the bombs don't come to the country. I barely believe her. I want to be here where there's a shelter to flee to. Somewhere to keep Prim safe.

"Katniss, so many of the other children have already gone to the country. It's better than staying here and avoiding bombs all the time." Mother's voice is firm, but hesitant. Like I'm a bomb that can go off at any time and she's trying to disable me.

I turn away from the door. Prim's face is streaked with tears. But she has stopped crying. She's watching me, searching my face for an answer.

I match Mother's eyes. She's got hopeful eyes, but they're so cloudy. A blue that's swirled with a cloud of fog.

"I have talked with Hazelle. It'll also be Posy, Vick and Rory going out," Mother says, her voice laced with pleading. "I don't feel right, sending the four of them on their own, to navigate through the countryside. Katniss . . ."

I catch Prim staring at me then. Scared eyes. Hopeful eyes. Wondering eyes. She gives a little sniff, and this digs into me. And I know.

"Fine," I say. My voice is a combination of biting and finality.

But Mother nods, and I go to sit next to Prim. I nearly grab her from my mother's grasp as I hold her against my chest, my hand pressed against her head. My embrace eventually causes her trembling to stop. She inhales deeply and sounds much better, almost tired, as if to fall asleep.

She does, eventually. And it's only Mother and I, and that wretched cat, left to listen to the sound of the bombs destroying our town, weakening my resolve as I hold Prim close. Yes. Maybe it is better in the country.

* * *

"Prim, do you have everything?" I say. She is wearing a very dark outfit, her blonde hair in braids, her arms holding an annoyed ball of fur and a little bag that was once used for storing business papers at an office. She looks so small and pale in her dark clothing.

"I do," she says.

"Good," I say, buttoning up my coat. A whistle is sounded, filling my ears with the sound of the train beside me. Smoke and fog curling around, making all the people around the station look like shadows in a mist. Many of them are welcoming soldiers home, all with some sort of medical discharge, or waving and hugging and kissing goodbye men who have enlisted. The amount of tears and sobbing on the platform is spine-tingling.

My mother stands beside us, wearing a jacket that is threadbare. She tries not to look cold, though, as she bends down to Prim's height and straightens her jacket. Tries to comfort her with a weak smile.

"You're going to be just fine in the country, Prim. You and your sister; Mr. Abernathy will take care of you both," Mother says, her voice soft.

"And Posy and Vick and Rory?" Prim asks, looking behind our mother to the little group of children listening respectfully to their mother. Mrs. Hawthorne, Hazelle, looks weary but strong as she squats down to Posy's height and fixes her hat. Rory and Vick look down at her, their backs straight, trying to appear strong in front of their mother.

Gale's siblings look so much like him. I'm grateful that they're going to the country too. They're next-door neighbors; I'm used to protecting them and watching over them, almost like they're brothers and sisters of my own.

I turn back to Mother as she says, "Mr. Abernathy says the more the merrier."

I highly doubt this old family friend of my mother's is going to be pleased with more the merrier, but my mother's lying words seem to put Prim at ease. She gives my mother a rueful smile. My mother kisses her gently on the cheek and then stands up, looking at me.

"I'll take care of her," I say.

"I know you will." My mother has a hopeful face. But I can't give in to her hope. She hopes we'll be safe. She hopes I can forgive her for withdrawing all those months ago.

But when you're the one dragging your little sister to the bomb shelter, holding and comforting her as she soaks your dress with her tears, while she just _sits there_, staring off into space like all the answers can be found before her, it's hard to forgive. Part of me wants to forgive her. The other half wants to protect Prim from her.

"Please write to me," Mother says, her voice desperate. "I'm going to be volunteering with the nurses in the local area, to help Mrs. Paylor with the bomb victims. I want to hear from you both. Please."

I stare at her. I can't promise anything. But Prim looks at me. Prim is my weakness. She makes me nod and say, "I will."

Mother's face cracks a little; I can see the glassy tears in her eyes.

But there's the train's whistle. A conductor yelling, "All aboard to Sussex!"

"That's the call," Mother says. She hastily kisses our cheeks again, hugs us tightly. I tentatively wrap my arms around her, thinking carefully of the bags balanced in my hands that I don't want stolen. We have no trunks; too expensive.

Hazelle brings the children to us, and we head to the landing to head in. Rory gets in first after Hazelle kisses him, and he pulls in Vick, his little head held high, and then helps Prim, who turns and waves fiercely at my mother. She waves back.

Posy's withholding tears as she clings to Hazelle, saying, "I don't want to leave you, Mummy."

Only four-years-old and being separated from her mother. Hazelle whispers, "It's to keep you safe, Posy," and she kisses her and then hands her off to me. I hold her against my hip as she leans her head against my shoulder. Too tired to sit up. Too sad to speak anymore.

"Goodbye, Katniss," Hazelle says, standing back with my mother. She's so much taller than she is; Mother is so frail.

"Goodbye, Hazelle," I say. The conductor calls out for the last time and I turn and step onto the stairs, holding all my things carefully. In the car, I turn back just as the whistle blows again, and I stare at the two lonely faces on the platform. The sound of the engine and the smell of the coal fills the air as the wheels starts turning and churning their way down the tracks, making a _chug-chug-chug-chug_ noise.

"Mummy," Posy says just as we disappear out of the station and through into the country.

* * *

I feel like the oldest girl on this train. Sixteen-years-old amongst so many whimpering children under ten. The conductor starts to organize them, taking tickets and checking bags and getting the children situated. I take care of my party to lighten his load. But I don't trust him. I have to keep them all within the line of my eyes. Nothing's going to separate us.

We take up two benches in the back. I sit against the back wall one, Prim leaning against my shoulder, Posy sleeping against my arm. Our bags are hauled up by Rory and Vick, who are helped by the conductor. The two boys then go and sit in the row in front of us, pointing out many things in the countryside.

I've never been in a train before. It's a strange experience; my bones rattle as the carriage shifts back and forth, the wheels charging it forward. Outside, everything is green, but with a mist of grey. Not unlike London. It's probably covering the entirety of England. It's been like that ever since this war began.

I remember when Dad went to war. Barely on the force for three months before being blown up. He was in the same company with Gale's father.

The hours loll by. We have to stop a few times. I get out the lunch. Applies. Small sandwiches. We drink water from the train. There's not much food, but I tell the children of the country, where there'll be more food and animals and places to have fun in with no fear of bombs. This settles them down, and all three Hawthornes are asleep soon enough. Prim sits up and watches out the window, her hand half clenched against the glass. Buttercup meows.

I go to take him to the people's restroom. I don't dare ask for a bag and convince him to use that. Cats are unreasonable. Paper bags are rare.

I don't know for sure if there'll be more food and animals in the country. I got a gist of it from Haymitch's telegram. But his telegram can be taken many ways. It's short, wrinkled, and in my bag. My mother tucked it in when we were packing up and leaving, passing through the bomb-ridden city to the train station. I had read it beforehand, and I read it again when I bring Buttercup back.

Haymitch's sentencing is very quick. Curt.

_Fine _stop _I have room _stop _Send all five of them _stop _Fine, and the cat _stop _I'll send my housekeeper to get them at the station _stop

_-Haymitch_

I have no idea what to expect from this man. My mother didn't elaborate. She just said she knew him, for he had been with one of her best friends. She didn't mention the friend being at his house. He must be alone. I wondered why, but I shook it off.

How rich is he to have a housekeeper?

* * *

The train station comes into view within a couple of hours from leaving the station. The children pop up, renewed with energy, and chatter as I get the luggage down. The train comes to a stop.

"Kids, come on. Everyone take your bags," I say. The bags are dispersed. Especially Rory looks weighed down, carrying the majority of his younger siblings' luggage. But his shoulders are straight. Tall. Proud. He'd try to carry them all if he could.

We get onto the platform, blending in with the rest of the people, all wearing dark, heavy clothing. I can smell snow in the air. I can feel the coldness of Prim's hand, and of Posy's, through their fingerless gloves.

I look around the platform, and suddenly I realize that I want to strangle our new caretaker.

Haymitch Abernathy has told me _nothing _about what his housekeeper looks like. I have no idea what her name is, what clothes I should expect her to wear, what age she should be. Nothing. Because that man is not helpful.

Suddenly I get a feeling of what Haymitch Abernathy is: A hard human who doesn't want us at all. If he wants us, he would not have made such a mistake in our coming to his house.

I sigh deeply, angrily, and I hear Prim's voice. "Katniss, who are we looking for?"

"Haymitch Abernathy's housekeeper. She should be here."

I try to find someone in the crowd, someone looking for a large group of children. What I see is someone I am instantly repulsed by. I feel like throwing up, especially when she catches sight of us and squeals and runs to greet us.

She has an enormous blonde wig. She has makeup and smells like smoke, like she smokes cigarettes in her spare time. Her eyes are done up; her clothes are bright compared to the dullness. I feel, from paintings and photos, that she is stuck in the 20s'.

"Children! Little darlings!" she says, coming and hugging us all quickly. She straightens, clasps her hands in front of her, and turns to a young man who is entirely too handsome. Bronze hair, chiseled features, tall, beautiful. I stare at him and feel _nothing_. He must have girls falling head over heels for him. But to me he looks arrogant.

"Aren't they just beautiful, Finnick?" the housekeeper says. Her accent is so squeaky. Chirpy. Posh. And what kind of a name is Finnick?

"Oh, yes. If you decide that, yes, Effie," Finnick says. He grins at me. I frown coldly at him and draw the girls closer.

Effie turns to us and says happily, "Hello, children. I am Miss Effie Trinket, Haymitch Abernathy's housekeeper. I'm here to take you home." She places a white hand against Finnick's broad shoulder. "This is our driver. He works for Mr. Abernathy as well. His name is Finnick Odair."

"Hello, chill'uns," Finnick says. His grin never leaves his face. It's eerie. His voice rings with a sound that takes me a second to get. Welsh. He's from Wales. But his dialect is different. "We're gonna have a good time, aren't we?"

The kids don't say anything.

Effie bends down and looks each one of us in the eye. "You're Posy, aren't you?" she says to Prim.

"Prim. That's Posy," my little sister says, pointing to Posy at my side.

Effie smiles, embarrassed, and says, "May I take your hand?"

Posy shakes her head. I feel triumphant.

Effie straightens and clasps her hands once more. She reminds me of a clown. So much makeup. She must have gotten it from some black market or something. "Finnick, take their bags."

The boys and Finnick take the bags and Effie points excitedly across the station. "Come along, children. The wagon is just across the station. We must hurry to get home for dinner. So much to do, so little time, we really _must _stay on schedule! I do hate being late. It's horrible. Remember that, dear children. No being late!" Effie rambles as our strange party goes through the station. We attract more attention because of Effie. But I keep my head forward, ignore Finnick's laughing face at my side, hold tight to the two girls' hands in mine. I won't let them go, and despite how strange and dangerous this place is starting to turn, I won't let them go.

I may start regretting this decision to come to the country when we get to the wagon and Effie says, climbing into the front seat, "Just another hour until home, children!"

Home. No. A house. The home of Haymitch Abernathy, who I have a feeling I will not like. And if I don't like him, he's not going to like me.

_January 14th, 1941_

_Dear Gale_

_It's been a while since I got a letter from you. I was relieved to get one from you. It's from August. And the army, of course, had cut those names out. I know. I hope you had a good Christmas at least, despite the mud and danger.  
_

_Prim is doing well. Still cheerful. _

_The bombs have gotten worst, and so, Gale, Mother is sending myself and Prim to the country. I'll ask her to forward your next letter to my new address. I'll be in Sussex. _

_I have to go help Prim with her packing. We're taking that irritable cat on the train. I hope it goes well. _

_Your friend_

_Katniss_

**Whatchu think? Please tell me! Thanks for reading! **


	2. Haymitch Freaking Abernathy

_**Soli Deo gloria  
**_

**DISCLAIMER: I do NOT own the Hunger Games. The feedback for this is helpful, thank you!**

The wagon is bumpy beneath me. The bags dig into my back, but I don't say a word. I don't know what will tick this Effie Trinket off, but I'd hate to be the one under her anger. She's too cheerful to really be like that. She smiles. She laughs gaily. She points and explains about the country as we move our way out of the small town to the back roads of Sussex. I know that one thing will make her twitch and turn the tide. No. I may not like Effie Trinket, but I will have to learn to live with her.

Prim and Posy stick to me like I'm a guardian angel. That I am not. I'm not angel. I'm as hard as a statue, but they cling to me like I radiate warmth instead of chilly air. They fall asleep against my body, Posy snoring next to my ear.

Rory and Vick look over the country. I watch it vaguely as the places pass by. It's so different from the city. First, the air is clean. No fog. No smoke. And there's no sounds except for Effie's happy chatter and the wagon. No crying. No bombs killing loved ones. No alarm. Nothing. It's almost peaceful, and for a brief second I forget about a war happening all around us.

The place is cold, though, grey, the grass looking brittle and yellow. Tufts of snow sit about in the fields, which have winter wheat growing almost pessimistically. The sky is grey, but it's a cozy grey. The grey of winter.

I see horses, looking old and tired, as they pull several wagons along the road. Effie turns, nearly leaning out of the wagon as she points to a lone figure, saying, "There's Johanna Mason! Oh, let's talk with her, Finnick! Slow the wagon."

"You know she doesn't like talking with ya, Effie," Finnick says easily, looking like he's teasing her. But he stops the wagon.

A woman comes walking up the dirt road. Dark hair pulled back in a bun, her clothes pulled tight around her, her mouth a line. She stops at the wagon and says curtly, "Effie. Hello, Finnick."

Finnick salutes her. She smirks.

Prim wakes and sneezes.

Johanna looks over to the wagon bed, and I feel caught, like we're smuggled goods and she's a copper.

Johanna takes us all in, from the boys to us pile of girls. Emotions pass over her face, a number of which. One of remembrance. One of anger. One of pain. One then of pride. She laughs and looks back to Effie.

"Are you serious?" Her breath comes out like steam.

"Excuse me, Johanna? Whatever do you mean?" Effie says, so confused.

"Haymitch Abernathy, the stinky sorry drunk I play poker and smoke with, is talking in a bunch of kids from the city?" Johanna laughs. I feel something rise in my cheeks, and realize it's a blush. Of embarrassment. Like I shouldn't be here. Like I'm something that should have stayed in the city. And instantly I don't like Johanna.

I'm in the country with four children I love and four adults I'm starting to loathe.

Effie looks perturbed, pink in the face as well. "I will be there to guide the children in the house. Haymitch need not to have to do all the work himself. It is an honorable thing, Johanna, part of the war effort."

"Don't talk to my arse about the war effort, Effie Trinket," Johanna says, spitting.

Effie scowls, looking shocked. "Your language, Johanna!"

"What about my language?" Johanna looks over at the kids and laughs. "Gotta protect your virgin ears, kids."

Finnick laughs.

Effie is beet red underneath her mask of clown paint.

"Johanna, do not talk such vulgar language in front of the children. They're delicate!"

"Course they are, Trinket. 'Cause kids coming in from a city that's bombed every night are as delicate as china, going'ta shrivel like a flower if something harsh dare touches their paths," Johanna says bitterly. She looks at me with an almost sorry look. But it disappears as soon as she looks back to Effie. "I'm more scared for you than the kids, Trinket."

She turns to Finnick. "See you soon, Odair."

"Mason," Finnick says. "Going down to the recruitment office, Johanna?"

"Yeah. Just gonna get the boys signed up for war. Nothing unusual," and Johanna says, "Good luck, kids," as she passes us, trudging down the muddy dirt road. Snow starts to lightly fall as she hurries on.

Effie falls back in her seat with a gasp as Finnick starts the wagon again. It lurches, sending us all moving around. "Honestly, why does Haymitch keep her company around?" Effie tsks.

"Because she's amazingly hilarious, obviously," Finnick says. His voice rings with sardonic tones. I'm surprised as I look behind me at his back and head. He sounds annoyed with Effie; not a particular annoyance, just a general. Like he has to suffer her every day, which he probably does. And suddenly I don't think him all that badly. I still don't like his attitude, but that doesn't mean I don't get it. At least—this part of it.

"I hope she spends more time at the war office than at the manor," Effie sniffs. A handkerchief is brought out to touch her nose. "She'll be a horrible influence on the children."

Children. I feel as if categorized into a general age. I am not a child. I do not think, feel, or act as a child. I'm too hardened to have the sweet innocence of a child.

Finnick lets out a barking laugh. "They're going to live with Haymitch Abernathy. He drinks and curses and would have his entire house in a wreck if it wasn't for us. And yet you're worried about Johanna?"

"Do not speak so ill of your employer, Finnick!" Effie hisses at him. She sighs, though, and puts down her hankie. I can practically see her face, all red and white. Her head is turned to look at the road ahead of her, not to the side as it was when she was speaking with Johanna. "I do know, I believe, where you are coming from. He would not be the man he is today if I had not stepped in, seeking a job."

"Yes. And your complaining got him into hiring me, so there's nothing bad in that," Finnick says, laughing.

"Oh, Finnick, hush and keep your eyes on the road. There is snow on the road." Effie's voice is a soprano as she says over her shoulder, "Doesn't that sound exciting, children? Snow falling? Oh, the snowballs and the snow angels you can make! Oh, joy!"

What Effie doesn't realize is that these children don't like the snow at all. Snow is biting. Snow is freezing. It offers no joy. It just makes the broken streets of London soggy, horrible. She seems entirely gullible when it comes to us. And she doesn't even realize that.

The road gets little smoother as we cross the country. The hills get large, the fields longer. I see a few old farmers with their plows and horses and oxen. Effie smiles and waves pleasantly to them. She is the only one happy in this situation. I can see Finnick's hunched shoulders and I know that he is as tired as the rest of us.

I almost loll off to sleep, and then chastise myself for abandoning my watch over the children when I get jostled awake. My eyes fly open and I'm nearly throw forward. I hear Effie's soft, scolding voice talking to Finnick as I sit up straight, alert and awake. Prim is awake. Posy is asleep. So is Rory. Vick.

It's gotten darker out. As I look around, I can barely see anything, save for the shadows. The white-greyness of the sky. The shapes rising up atop hills at our sides. Effie screeches and says, "Oh, there it is! The manor! Children!" She turns. I'm the only one who looks.

It's a white house. Dark shutters, maybe three stories. A front porch with rocking chairs. Drafty looking windows and a windmill beside it. We roll up the road and I can see the path leading up to the front door. Stones and dead plants half hidden in the snow. A stable hangs in the back, and a little shed. All dark grey. All looking like they're haunted. There's no lights on.

"Oh, the lights didn't go out again, did they? Oh, Finnick!" Effie says as we ride up. Her voice awakens the Hawthorne children. She notices and sputters, "Wel—welcome children, to your new home!" Clears her throat. "Now, this is the house of Mr. Haymitch Abernathy, but you're going to live here, too. He doesn't have many rules. Just do take care not to break anything, and do not disturb him."

Sounds easy enough. I just need to stay away from this man. Maybe not see him at all. I know, then, that the less contact I have with Haymitch Abernathy, the better.

We stop in front of the house. Finnick jumps off and helps Effie down. She rambles excitedly about something or other as Finnick comes and opens the wagon bed. He's not smiling anymore when he offers his hand.

"Hand me one of them. It's cold out 'ere. Need to get 'em inside," he says. His voice sounds muffled.

Rory is passed to him and is set up right next to the wagon. Vick. Prim. He carries Posy in his arms as I jump down.

"You can come and get their baggage, Finnick. Now, come along, children," says Effie. We follow her up the porch, which squeaks under our feet, and through the door.

Effie flicks a light and waves a hand. "Welcome, children!"

The kitchen is open behind a foyer. A few sofas are set up. A coffee table fills the top of a rug. A radio is on it. Paintings all hang about the walls. And then torn pictures, with glass missing from their frames. Effie is the housekeeper, who seems to be a nitpick. How can those pictures be like that?

Effie claps her hands and says, "Now, I shall give you all a tour after supper. Just follow me into the kitchen and I'll have Annie get you all something to eat."

Finnick leaves us as he slips Posy onto a chair. The kitchen is cozy, despite the large house. I can hear the radio play music and see many patriotic signs hung up everywhere. The dishes are set out on the table already as we slip in and see a young girl over a stove. Her hair is pulled back with a kerchief and her lips are a bright red. She smiles shyly as Effie grabs her arm and says, turning to us, "Annie, this are the children I was telling you about. The ones from the city."

"Hello," Annie says. She sounds so soft and deliberate, like she thinks over each word before she says it. Her gaze on me is shifty, her eyes not able to focus in on me.

I nod and Effie says, "Take a seat, children!" and she gets to talking to Annie. Good. The cook will have to suffer as I help the children into their seats, not daring to look around the house except the chairs around the table. I feel out of place, for I'm intruding a stranger's house. Having to take what's not mine. And for the thousandth time I'm doubting myself as to making this decision. For now not only am I owing for myself, but for the four children.

Soup is served. Bread and fresh milk. It's a feast compared to our usual crackers and canned goods. Effie explains there is a cow they have here, but no one hears her. Everyone is eating their food. Not slobs, though. Spoons and the like. Effie looks relieved, like she thought we'd be animals.

She goes away to another part of the house and Finnick comes in with the last of our bags.

"Where would you like these?" he asks.

Oh. He's talking to me. Doesn't he realize I have no idea what the layout of this house is? And then I realize he's talking to Annie, who's starting to clear away the dirty dishes from the now lethargic children.

"You can put them in their rooms, Finn," she says. The dishes are put on the counter. She turns to me and says, "Would you like me to show you where the rooms are?"

I nod, spare a glance at the children. They're all sleeping against the table. Prim's yawning. I will be right back.

So I follow the two, carrying two little bags. Annie walks behind Finnick in the narrow hallway, answering his question of "Where did Effie go, anyway?" with "I believe she went to wake up Haymitch and tell him of the new arrivals."

Finnick lets out a barking laugh. "That's a bad idea. Last I saw him, he was passed out in his office."

Passed out? I can only assume my new host drunk himself incoherent. Just in time for our arrival as well. I'm feeling more unwelcome by the moment, only increasing the sense as I glance around the house. Neither of the two ahead of me point things out and tell me what they are. So I decide things for myself.

The room we pass that's dusty and filled with ancient bookshelves: library. The little closet with the toilet with a little chain and a porcelain sink: bathroom. The sitting room has two couches and rugs and large statues that are meant to be beautiful. They're not. They're just stone and naked.

We go up a set of stairs and suddenly the air grows cold. At the top, as we turn on the landing, I can see out a clear window that there is more snow falling on the ground. Delicate, crystalline flakes that sail down and hit the ground and melt.

And then I hear a knock on a door. I turn and see Effie rapping on a door, saying, "Haymitch, you cannot just turn me out like this! Mr. Abernathy!" and her fist turns white and then pink against the wood.

"Katniss," I hear. Finnick. He and Annie are in front of two doors in the hallway, looking at me expectantly. I follow Finnick into one of the rooms. It's grey, with three wooden beds with white lovely sheets and quilts. A dresser with a white bowl and pitcher. Two pictures lining the wall.

"I'll take it this will be the girls' room," Finnick says. "This all the baggage?"

I count them. Nod. "Yes. Those are all the girls'. "

"All right. I'll have all the boys' in their room. It'll be just right next to yours," Finnick says. "So you can find them quickly."

I stare at him for a moment. "Thank you."

"You're welcome." But he makes no move out of the room. I can still hear Effie's insistent knocking, and wonder why Finnick won't leave. I don't want him here. Can't he see that? He must want something. But what? I have nothing to say to him. I want to avoid him.

Suddenly his hand is wavering next to mine. "Come on. Shake it. It's how you make friends." His accent sounds so teasing in his voice.

I smack his hand away and he catches it with his other. "Sorry 'bout that, love," he says, sounding a little annoyed. "Didn't know you dodn't like civil movements."

"What do you want?" is all I can think of to say.

He puts his hurt hand down. "I wanted to see if we could become friends, especially since you don't like me very much, but it seems that you're holding your opinion of me very close and want nothing to do with me."

Wait. It's not like that. He—I don't know what to think of this man. He seems very different from the grinning man at the train station. He seems almost . . . humble, quiet. He watches me for a reaction with dark green eyes that don't waver, waiting for an answer.

Suddenly my hand is out and shaking his. He nods and steps back and out of the room. I watch him walk down the hall, Annie joining him from the boys' room. She looks a little dazed as he catches his hand in hers and squeezes it. Their fingers interlace. And suddenly I know why I'm not attracted to him. He and Annie are together. And I'm perfectly fine with that.

I hear Effie sigh. Her attempt at getting to our host has failed. She stalks down the hall, muttering under her breath. Haymitch irritates Effie. Now I have to meet this man. This perturbable man that can set his housekeeper off and not meet his guests but passes out in his study.

So I step up and boldly knock on the door. There's nothing that can stop me. He won't meet me. He won't. So I have to meet him, for I cannot live in the house of a man that I know nothing of, whether personality or even appearance.

I get a grunt. I lean my ear against the door and knock harder, maybe to jar him out of whatever state he's in. "Mr. Abernathy?" I call. No answer. Knock again. Nothing. Yell harder. "Haymitch. I'm coming in."

And I realize that the door is unlocked when I try it. Did he unlock it for me? Was it never locked? Did Effie just come out and knock? Maybe she was being polite. But I'm not. Butting into his study, everything is covered in shadows and cobwebs, dust motes fly in the air, paralleling the snow falling outside the uncovered windows.

And I notice the figure in the corner. A body draped around a carpeted chair, a bottle hanging lazily out of one hand by the floor, dripping liquor onto the scratched up floor. Dirty blonde hair. Literally. The smell of liquor and cigarettes fills the air and I say loudly into the room, "Haymitch?"

There's a grunt from the seat. That must be him. Which is a little disturbing, seeing as he rises like a giant that's drunk. He has to move the hair out of his face just to see me. Even then, he has to squint in the bare light.

"Who're you?" he says. He sounds drunk, but his voice isn't slurred.

"Do you want me to turn on a light?" I ask, ignoring him.

"Yeah, I wouldn't mind it, if I just knew who was asking." Sarcasm. I can work with that.

"Katniss Everdeen. I was in the message sent to you."

"Oh. The refugee trying to get away from the London Blitz, huh?"

I hold in a sigh. "Yes."

His voice takes a turn for the gruff. "Why are you in this room?"

"I was looking to meet you. I wanted to know what my host looked like," I say, folding my arms over my chest.

He stands up fully and stretches out his arms. "Got a good look, sweetheart?" His arms go down. "Now get out."

"Don't you want to meet any of the other kids?" I persist. This was probably what Effie was trying to get him to do. Even though I know I have less eloquent persuading skills, I can pursue him with arguing.

"No. I don't. Wait. Oh, great; there's more?" He sighs and the liquor in his bottle sloshes over the floor.

"I'd say there is. Four more children," I say, annoyed that his alcohol has made him lose parts of his memory.

Haymitch swears and smacks his bottle onto a desk. It doesn't break, but his hand is shaking as he draws it away, a trickle of blood running down it.

"Do you want to meet them?" I ask, though I do not feel as if any of them should ever meet him.

"I—I'll see them tomorrow," Haymitch mutters.

"You'll be hungover tomorrow."

"Yeah. That'll help."

With that, I throw him a burning glare and slam the door behind myself. When Effie hears and asks for an explanation, I say, "Mr. Abernathy," and she instantly bombards me with questions about what I was doing as I wake the children to get them to bed.

I don't answer and she eventually stops.

**Well, what do y****'all think? Please review!  
**


	3. Hunting and Animals

_**Soli Deo gloria **_

**DISCLAIMER: I do NOT own the Hunger Games. Guys, thanks for loving this story so much! :)**

The boys say they'll take care of themselves. I carry Posy up against my body up the stairs. Prim runs up ahead, looking back to catch me slowly making my way up. Like she's scared I'll disappear, or worried that I'm not there anymore.

At the landing I turn to Effie, who has a hand on the newel post's stopper at the bottom of the stairs and been talking to me about caring for the children ever since I made the trip from the table to the stairs. She's saying, "Are you sure you don't need help with getting them to bed, Katniss?"

I do not need the help of a squeaky housekeeper. While my respect for her has grown a little, seeing as she had yelled at Haymitch, all I can see is pastel makeup colors and the look of a clown. So I shake my head. I can take care of the children. I have become so self-sufficient that there is no need for an adult at all, never mind four.

The wind howls as I lay a sleeping Posy in her nightgown in her new bed. She shudders slightly, but calms down as I press a kiss to her forehead and turn to Prim, who is sitting atop her bed, her nightgown looking like a pale ghost all about her, her eyes sticking out of her head like she's seen something so surprising to her. She calls my name, and I join her on her bed.

"Aren't you scared here?" Prim asks.

I shake my head. I'm too disturbed, too intrigued, too prideful to be scared in this house. These adults and this house are not scary. They are foreign, and though I am definitely intruding, tomorrow I am going to scavenge this house. Know its every corner. Memorize its pathways, secret passageways and corners. Nothing will be hidden, for I don't think Haymitch cares. If he cared about a refugee from the city exploring his house, he would have said something. But he couldn't. Too drunk.

I sleep in Prim's bed, her body pressed against mine. My arms are wrapped around her, holding her safely as her trembling subsides.

* * *

The next morning Finnick comes into the kitchen with a frozen cock.

"Oh no," Annie says, stopping dead at the sight of the dead rooster. It's frozen solid.

"At least it's stopped snowing. Didn't have to take more than an hour or two to make it to the stables," Finnick says faux-cheerfully, tossing the dead bird onto the table. Prim stares at it, wide-eyed. Posy lets out a little screech.

Effie, who is talking with Annie about the day's schedule, stares at it with a really mortified look. "Finnick! Really! The children are eating their breakfast!"

"Did I hear 'breakfast'?" a husky voice says from the stairway. I don't move from my chair as the children do, startled. I turn to Prim and say, "Shh, Prim. It's Mr. Abernathy."

"Is he scary, Katniss?" Prim wants to know. She looks so frightened.

"He's like a rugged, disgusting teddy bear, Prim," I say, giving her a faux-smile. She giggles, though, but breaks it as the man steps into the kitchen and points at the frozen rooster on his table.

"What is_ that_"—emphatic point—"doing on my table?"

"Finnick brought it to—to show to the children," Effie says, still sounding startled as she keeps her eyes on the dead bird, like she doesn't want to look at it but can't help it.

"Oh. Fine, whatever," and Haymitch stumbles into a chair next to Prim. I lean forward instantly, a butter knife in hand from cutting Posy's thin wheat toast. If he tries anything, he will get pinned to the table, and maybe Finnick will be nice enough to tug him out of the mahogany.

He takes one look at Prim and says, "Who're you?"

"Primrose Everdeen," she says. Her voice shakes a little, but is otherwise clear.

"Primrose. Everdeen." He points at me. Says gruffly, "That your sister?"

"Yes. She is," Prim says, smiling. "Katniss."

"She was the one who barged into my study last night, right?" he says.

I clear my throat, sit up a bit more. I shouldn't have to look so respectful in front of this man, but I want to. Prove that I can control my actions far better than he can. "Yes. I am. And it seems that you do in fact want to meet the rest of the children."

Haymitch waves his hand and slouches back in his seat, his dirty hair falling back in his face.

Finnick laughs from drinking his coffee substitute, roasted acorns instead of the coffee granules, in the corner next to Annie, who is throwing another log into the stove. The radio plays a song softly in the background. "Nursing a hangover, Haymitch?"

"Get me a cup of coffee," Haymitch says, not wanting any of Finnick's teasing.

"You finished the ration last week. Enjoy your acorns. We're squirrels this morning," Finnick says, laughing as he slides a cup across the smooth table.

Haymitch takes a sip and sticks out his tongue.

"Haymitch," Effie says reprimandingly, her lips set in a pursed position as she shuffles her papers.

"What?" Haymitch says.

"What are we to do with a dead rooster? I know we cannot waste it, not with the war effort, but what is there to do with a dead male bird?" Effie frets.

A rooster can be good cooking meat. Tough, but it stewed it will taste fine and be tender. I stand up and say, "I'll butcher it. Got a stump?"

Finnick nods before Effie can say a word in protest, and I kiss the top of Prim's head and go to fetch my coat. It's surprisingly warm here in the country, despite being surrounded by the snow. At home we had to go outside everyday to the bomb shelter to get away from the bombs. I wore my coat all the time there. Now I put it on with my gloves and scarf. My boots are rubber and too small; they're Prim's now.

Finnick comes up behind me, still in his warm clothes from going out to fetch the bird earlier, his hand holding the bird. And in his other hand is a pair of old work boots.

"Want to wear these, love?" he asks.

I don't want to, but my cold feet pinch and beg me for them. My hand goes out and I catch them and have my feet in them in less than a minute.

The door is opened and I look out into the cold world with almost a bit of remembrance in my soul. Like I've been out in the cold outdoors of England once upon a time ago. Like the chilly air used to be in me. Like the outdoors are meant for me.

Finnick leads me across the fallen snow to the butcher stump. "Are you sure," he says, "you don't want me to butcher it?"

I shake my head. I have read books and I have knowledge of butchering chicken. A rooster shouldn't be any different. "Do you think we get our chickens already butchered at the market?" I say as I slap the rooster onto the stump. When we used to be able to get chickens. Back when there hadn't been a war going on.

"All right. I was just asking, is all," Finnick says. He lifts the hatchet out of the stump, taking out a chunk of it in the process. I get handed it and the rooster's head is taken off in two smacks of the razor sharp hatchet.

Finnick seems impressed as the head falls off the stump. "There goes the last of the roosters. Had a couple of foxes I've had to shoot that got the other two. Going to have to go to market and see if I can find another. Haymitch likes his eggs."

I'm silent as I begin to pluck away the feathers. They swirl around in the air as I grab the fowl foliage and yank it out of the fatty skin, causing a rainbow of colors to fall onto the white, crisp snow. They remind me of fall, with the falling leaves.

I take in the farmyard as I pluck away, quick at it from experience. The chickenhouse tells the tales of several annoyed chickens, the roof slanted, the mud around it sloppy and chunky. The stables house the two horses, both wearing blankets in this cold. It seems like we should be snowed in, but we're not.

"So, what do you think?" Finnick asks after the cold has sucked away all our conversation. I look up and see the cotton ball of warm air come from his mouth. I look away and say, "It lacks in animals."

"Yeah, it's winter and wartime. We're not exactly a full-on farm, you know," Finnick says.

I remember Prim and how she loves animals. This place has chickens and horses, but that's not good enough. She loves that cat like no one else. Which reminds me. I hope for Prim's sake that that cat has escaped from the wagon where he had been plopped and has found shelter. For my sake, I hope he has froze to death.

I meet Finnick's beautiful green eyes and say firmly, "It needs geese."

"Geese? Jeez—well, maybe," he says, taking in the yard. "Seems like a lot of work."

"You have five kids trying to forget the city. I think we can handle a little work," is all I say in reply.

And I think Finnick gets it, for when March comes and the grey winds and rains dump onto this quickly-turning-lush-green country, he and I go to market and we purchase—no—_haggle_ with the goose man for a dozen geese. He hates us now, I'm sure, but that's what makes Finnick and I laugh as I get out a switch whip from one of the tall trees on the property and drive the geese forward. I had climbed those trees, been across the yard and taken in the house.

The market is the place Finnick and I frequent now. But the prices are getting worse everyday. Sometimes I meet Johanna there, a basket on her arm, a tight look on her face, snarky words on her lips. She doesn't annoy me quite as much as she did at our first meeting. The second time we had met she had come up to the door to Haymitch's house, the day I had gone exploring after I had made sure that all the kids were safe and away from Haymitch.

It was after supper and there had been a knock on the door. Annie was busy drying dishes and I decided to not leave anyone in the cold of January. I opened it to a brightly optimistic Johanna. She invited herself in and brought me to a game of poker with Haymitch and her and even Finnick, who didn't want to leave Annie but let himself get pulled away.

I didn't get drunk or smoke a cigar. However, my quiet strategy won out in the game, and Johanna and Finnick laughed themselves hoarse until their sides hurt when Haymitch cursed hard enough to shame a sailor. It was a very prideful moment, and I bowed and snuck out, Finnick and Johanna's laughter ringing behind me.

Since then I have gained respect from Johanna and a respect for her has grown. She is a good haggler, good at her job, quick with a witty remark, and is so blunt I can't help but hate her at times.

"How'd you get Haymitch AND Effie to let you lot get geese?" Johanna now asks, taking in the little parade ahead of us with surprise.

"Effie hasn't been told and Haymitch doesn't care. He just waved his hand and said to do whatever we had to do at the market," Finnick says. "Sometimes him being drunk is easiest on us."

Johanna is frowning at this. Or maybe it is not because of Haymitch and his drinking issues. I can tell by the way the lines are deep in her face, and how she works at the war office with the recruits. Johanna's our news source, and that's why she can be so down because she knows so much. Too much knowledge is a burden.

"What has happened now?" Finnick is the first to ask.

"Of course you would know, Katniss, that London gets bombed every night, right?" Johanna says.

I'm surprised to hear my name and this common occurrence. I nod.

"Yeah? Well, guess what those Nazi bastards bombed last night?" Blanks stares from both of us. "Buckingham Palace," Johanna says, with pure relish at being the one to deliver such horrible news. "Those nasty humans decided to bomb the pride and joy, the house of our royalty. Nerve of them, really," Johanna says, shaking her head.

Johanna prides herself on getting the first taste of news here in the country, and she loves spreading it around. She's told Finnick and I that she's gotten quick information from her special sources. All we were able to dig out of her were two names. Plutarch Heavensbee and Beetee. The first is a high ranking officer in the British navy and the other is an engineer who works with Plutarch.

"The lengths the Nazis go to," Finnick says.

"Nothing is sacred," Johanna says conversationally. "What say you about it, Katniss?"

I look straight ahead. "It's not below them." I press my lips together and try not to think about the Nazis invading my country. Not when my father had gone to fight to keep them back. To beat them. And yet they're alive and he's not.

"Where are you heading now?" Johanna asks once the silence has become too long and awkward for her. Johanna hates awkward silences.

"The Hob," Finnick says.

The Hob. A black market that's hidden away in the forest away from the village. The rationing has increased ever since this war has progressed, and everybody is very angry and picky over the food we get. With an egg per week per adult and three per child, and the eggs from Haymitch's chickens not coming around, even with the new rooster (it took forever to hunt down for a reasonable price. Took Finnick and me two weeks to find him and an hour to haggle for him), and cheese at four ounces per week, the rationing has everyone extremely witty in acquiring their foods for the best price.

But the black market is where it is at. Some farmers bring their meats in with their products, and then there's the dressmaker with extra little garments, and it is its own little story hidden away in the greyness of the woods.

But before we head to the Hob, on our way out of town, we come across the goatman. A very short fellow, he's Irish and as mean as a rooster. But he's in a predicament; one of his old goats lays on the cold road, breathing feebly.

"What's wrong with it?" Finnick asks as we three and the geese stop.

"Is none of your business. Keep movin' oh, quit lookin'," the goatman says in earnest. He looks mean.

But this only goads me on, because in my mind I can see it. When I had brought Buttercup home and tried to drown him in our little sink, Prim cried and I gave her him and she saved him from his worms. She keeps that damn cat in perfect health, and all I can see in that goat is something that can provide for its stay and be healed by Prim, providing her someone to take care of and focus on in the process. Because I've seen her. She gets so quiet and solemn in that big old house. She needs someone to take care of.

I hand off the switch whip to Finnick. "I'll trade you for it," I say.

"Trade? Nah, I don't need your trade. Just keep on moving, little girl, keep movin' 'fore it snows," the man says, waving his hand.

I am taller than him. And I have a determination that he does not have. "I want the goat."

"She—she ain't for sale. Keep movin'," the man says.

"Say that one more time and more than one of your goats is going to be lying on the ground," Johanna says, raising an eyebrow.

The man sputters and I say, "A goose for the goat."

"A—a goose for my precious goat? You're outta your mind! No!" the goatman says.

"That's the deal. I get a dying goat while you get a healthy goose that can actually walk by itself." In truth, that goat is so big and heavy with meat that_ I_ would have traded it for three geese, but this man seems to know that he can get rid of it and make something out of it. He twirls his beard with his sausage-like fingers for a moment before Finnick bends forwards, nearly down to the height of Prim, to be eye to eye with the man. The man looks frightened out of his wits and Johanna is looking nastily satisfied.

"The offer is slipping away. You've got three seconds before we step away," Finnick warns in a quiet voice. It's his calm voice that is masking how angry he is inside. I've seen him use the same voice in front of Effie and Haymitch. Never Annie. Never me. Never the children.

We take a few steps back. Johanna cocks her head away with a smirk on her face for only Finnick and me to see.

And the goatman's voice is calling after us and we're heading to the Hob with a goat under Finnick's arm.

"Why'd you want that old thing anyway?" Johanna asks once we're on the path to the Hob. Our geese honk and slip in the mud and Finnick curses.

"The milk. Maybe get it pregnant. Prim, my little sister, she can save her. She's so patient and has the hands of a healer. She can save her." My voice sounds confident. Proud. Because that's how I feel about Prim. She can save that goat, and will not listen to anyone who says anything but that.

Johanna seems to take this in stride as we leave poor Finnick outside the falling-apart old building to go shopping. The last thing any of the patrons want to be around is a bunch of farm animals. I can guarantee better prices when the owner of a stall is not mad at you for bringing in a racket along with you.

The Hob's stalls line two of the walls. The other two, the ends, are bare, with two empty doorways that have large pieces of plywood next to them. In case any coppers come sneaking in, those are used to cover the doors and give the building a feeling of being rundown. No one has had to put them up ever since I've been coming here.

I go to Greasy Sae's stall first, Johanna looking like she owns the building as she goes to hunt down a good bargain concerning sewing materials. She volunteers to make blankets and clothes for the soldiers. And a sharp sewer she is. Now, Greasy Sae can be counted on to be a hard haggler, but she is trustworthy, with a granddaughter that hangs in the back of the stall who isn't right in the head. Her son died in Austria, leaving her to take care of the girl.

"What do you want today?" Greasy Sae says now. Behind her comes up a bunch of steam. A tepid smell comes from a rickety pot on the boil, spewing drops of whatever soup she is making today all over the little stove she's fashioned on her table.

"I'm looking into getting a bunch of greens," I say.

"All I got," Greasy Sae says, getting out a bunch of what looks like weeds. But it's green. I've seen them in an old book I have from my father. They grow along the road here. I've seen them peeking through, almost searching for sunshine. We have plenty of greens at the manor, but none of these. I've had the little children help me pick them, getting their blood moving in their bodies as they run around, laughing, picking the food.

"Got any meat?" I ask.

This earns me a laugh. "Honey, nobody has any meat around here. All the animals are slaughtered and sent to be rationed."

"I'm sick of these rations," I say.

"You're not the only one, I'll tell you what," Greasy Sae says.

"I know," I say.

"These people would pay good morning for good meat, but even the black market don't got it," Greasy Sae says, laughing like she's the only one who understands a private joke she's thinking about.

This makes me think. There are plenty of woods around the back of the manor, down the hill, beyond a little lake there. Effie has warned all the children, especially me, to stay out of there. She's certain there's Nazis and Japanese soldiers in there, ready to massacre us if we dare step a foot in there. But I'm not one to listen to Effie, and while she wrings her hands about the possibility of us getting murdered in the back lawn, I'm thinking about the animals in those woods. About the meat walking around free, that can be shot and sold and eaten. It would supplement our meager rations.

"You okay, girl?" Greasy Sae says, her accent old and guttural as she holds out the package.

I nod and hand her a couple shillings and then take the package, turning away. This can work. I'm sure I can find something to hunt with from the manor. Finnick has piled several different ancient weapons in the stables away from the horses. Yes.

"You didn't try Sae's soup, did you?" Johanna asks, coming to my side. A package in her hands is hung onto tightly. She's not losing that.

"No," I say. "But I have an idea."

We walk slowly through the Hob, which has an overall quiet atmosphere, despite the illegality of everything that's happening under this roof. Johanna doesn't seem to know what to say to this plan. She doesn't say more than a few words as I explain the plan. Finally, at the entrance, where I can see Finnick throwing daggers at us, she turns to me and says, "This is insane."

"I know," I say.

"Of course I'm coming with," Johanna says.

I wasn't planning on this. Johanna sets her jaw and says, "You just relayed your whole plan to me. I need meat. I can help you carry the things we catch. Maybe we can even get Finnick into it."

"I don't want Effie knowing about it," I say.

Johanna blows a raspberry. "What is she supposed to do about it if she finds out? Nothing. That's what."

Finnick looks at us with a tired expression. The goat looks more dead than it had before we had gone in. "About time. I'm tired of herding these stupid geese like I'm their gander." This makes Johanna laugh. "Come on. Let's get back. I figure it's going to snow."

* * *

Effie looks out from the front porch at the animals gathered in the front yard. Prim, in her heavy coat and braids, is talking excitedly to Finnick as the two head to place the goat by the kitchen's wood stove. Vick and Rory and Posy play with the geese, and Effie doesn't know what to do.

"Oh, goodness," Effie says, wringing her hands, but I pass her and hand the package of greens to Annie, who accepts them with a smile and turns back to the soup. Finnick comes in from the outdoors, blowing on his hands, and I ask him about weapons.

"Weapons? Need a knife or something, Katniss?" Finnick asks, genuinely a little shocked. He turns to Annie, having to look down, she's so much shorter, and says, "Hey, Annie, have you a knife to spare for Katniss?"

"Of course," Annie says.

I shake my head. "No. I don't need that. I need something I can throw, or something to hit something from a long distance away."

"We don't have any guns lying around, if that's what you're asking," Finnick says, cracking a bit of a grin.

"No, Odair. She needs a bow and arrow set, if there's any lying around," Johanna says, coming up to my side. Her face is stony white beneath her long dark hair, which is pulled back in a bun. She dusts her bulky dark gray coat away of any of the geese feathers that have floated up onto her clothes, and she shares a look with Finnick.

"Why do you need that?" Finnick wonders, an edge of curiosity in his voice.

"We're going hunting," Johanna says. Her voice is loud enough to capture the attention of Effie, who has come inside away from the madness of children and animals. She gasps and begins to sputter, but I ignore her and her words as Finnick leads Johanna and I out of the kitchen. Neither of us heed her useless warnings as we trudge through the grey sludge to the stables.

The horses, Twill and Bonnie, watch us as Finnick goes behind a couple of dead looking barrels and pulls out a bow and arrow set. A quiver made out of deerskin is pulled out as well, and Johanna, looking pleasantly surprised, demands the story of these weapons ending up in the possession of one Haymitch Abernathy.

"He got them from a man who put them in his safe keeping. Before he moved to the city. Don't know the exact details; I only came to work here a few years ago," Finnick says. He nods ahead to the bare wall. "Want a little target practice?"

I spend the next half hour with Finnick and Johanna, shooting at the wall. Johanna smacks on a piece of mint and calls out my mistakes as soon as I make them. Sometimes the children come to see what's happening and watch wide-eyed as I make my shots.

I concentrate on the grey wood and try to block out the voices around me. Finnick trying to help me. Johanna trying to not. The children asking questions. The geese squawking.

And then I run after Johanna when Effie, dressed in a ridiculous rain coat that's so heavy with dark fabric that it is dragging her down, comes out to lecture me. No. I have my bow and arrows, and the quiver is slung over my shoulder. The weapon feels so right in my hand, like they were made for my own rough hands. The perfect size.

The woods are grey and bare. No leaves to cover us. Our feet snap on the feet and old leaves. Johanna has her arms folded over her chest as she cranes her head around, taking in the entire sight.

"Don't see any trolls. No Nazis either. Japanese soldier-free. I'd say that Effie worries too much," Johanna says, shrugging.

There's a creek running through the woods. I can hear birds on the branches of the trees, chirping away a soft tune. The bow creaks in my hands. I relax a little. This is strange. It's too calm. The creek gurgles. A squirrel skips from tree to tree, too fast and too high up for a shot to be made.

Johanna stops and says, "Where are we going? What's the plan, General?"

I realize that in our haste to get away from Effie, we have no plan. I close my eyes to think. Johanna says, "You won't be able to shoot anything with your eyes closed. You're not that good." I ignore her. I have my bag and a small knife I did slip from the kitchen. Not the butcher knife Annie was ready to hand off to me. I have the bow, and the quiver sits against my shoulder. The arrow is in position on the bow, having found its way by itself. Just need a spot to stay until something crosses our path. I know that our feet are not adept to being quiet on the leaves. We'll scare any meat away.

I tell this to Johanna. She is game. "I'm here for the ride, Katniss. Lead the way," and she winks, her red lips moving about as she chews away at her mint leaves. She offers me one. I take it. The brightness breaks against my mouth, flooding my tongue with the sweetness and sharpness.

"'Bout the only thing that grows in my windowsill," Johanna says. "Annie likes them. Almost like she has a craving for them." Johanna and Annie share a house with Annie's old aunt, Margaret, or Mags, as Johanna and Finnick call her, down in the moor. It's a low sloped house, but just big enough for the three of them. Annie goes down there every night after she cleans up. Finnick joins her. I think those walks are the highlight of his day. He always comes back to the house flushed and smiling.

We find a large rock by the edge of the woods, nearest the town. Johanna complains that the sounds of the townspeople will have scared all the animals away from this particular spot. I ignore her and eventually she stops talking. All grows quiet, and when we grow quiet, the animals no longer become quiet after almost half an hour of pure silence.

A couple of spry rabbits hide behind a log. I lean forward, my aim slow and deliberate. Johanna knows enough not to make a sound. I fire.

A miss. The rabbits run away.

I curse and Johanna says, "That was a miserable right shot."

"I know," I say, my voice venomous as I pluck the arrow out of the cold ground and stick it back into the quiver. I turn and stand still, my eyes only darting around. A squirrel is going down an alder tree. Its beady black eyes look down, and I strike my bow. The arrow soars past the squirrel and makes it scurry away.

"It's getting dark," Johanna says, her arm folded over her chest, her eyes following me. I keep my eyes away from her. Johanna is a hard person. I don't want to see what disappointment and impatience she has for me.

I pick the arrow up and say, "Let's go."

Johanna takes to my side as I crash through the woods. I'm burning with anger, embarrassment. It doesn't matter that it was just Johanna who saw my failure. I saw it. My cheeks burn, despite the constant chill England has. I'm disgusted with my performance. Pathetic.

And so caught up am I in my own affairs that I get the breath knocked out of me by Johanna, who stands stock still, her arm out like an iron bar at my chest. I cough and she pulls me down, knocking me to the ground. I sputter, trying to recover my breath, when she hisses, "Quiet, you."

When I can breathe again, Johanna turns to me, a finger at her lips. So I stay silent and watch.

Ahead of us are two redheads. A boy and a girl, both of medium build and young age. Maybe my age. Both silent as they creep forward, looking behind them warily, as if they suspect to being caught at any time. On the girl's left shoulder I see a glint of gold.

Ahead of them, unbeknownst to them, we're near the train station. Several British soldiers are standing talking when one points them out, and several of the group walk forward. The pair notice them and hurriedly stand up to run. Neither of them makes it far before they're caught. I can hear the stern, questioning tones of the soldiers. The two are open-mouthed, shocked, and they're taken away, one soldier pointing to an office off the train station.

Johanna stands up and hurries to one of the soldiers that didn't go after them. I follow her, my weapon tight in my hand as I come to the pair. The soldier Johanna is talking to is as young as her, bright, fiery orange hair on his head. Friendly face.

"Darius, they're being taken to the office, aren't they?" I hear Johanna say as I take to her side.

"Yes," Darius says. He sounds a little sorry for them.

"What happened, exactly?" I ask. I feel so confused. The two were sneaking around. Were they criminals? Outlaws? Runaways?

Johanna turns to me, her lips pressed in a fine line. "Those two were Jews. Didn't you see their Stars of David?"

I shake my head. I know what those are. All the Jews have to wear gold stars with black, bold lettering, telling the world of their heritage.

"They escaped from some foreign country," Johanna says. "More 'n likely Austria or Poland."

"And they're not exactly welcomed into England," Darius says. His accent is accented with each syllable. "Who's your friend, Johanna?"

"Katniss Everdeen. She's from London, escaping the London Blitz. Katniss, this is Darius. We spent a lot of time together at the war office," Johanna say.

Darius shakes my hand and says, "Haven't you ever heard of the Jews?"

"They're getting persecuted by Hitler," I say. "Along with everyone else not German."

Darius nods.

"And Jews are not allowed in England?" I say, confused.

"We've got limited immigration laws regarding the Jews. Those two came in illegally," Darius says, and then another officer calls for Darius. He nods to us and walks off, his head down, his stride quick.

Johanna says hurriedly, "Let's get out of here," and we're on our way back to the manor in a few minutes, almost there. Our boots thump in the sludge and my head spins. It's surprising to see that in the woods just outside the manor I am staying in. I wonder if Haymitch Abernathy knows about this.

I guess Effie had a point. There may not be any Nazis or Japanese soldiers in those woods, but there is someone else. Someone she didn't warn us about.

**I MADE THE CHAPTER LONG YAY.**

**Thanks for reading! **


	4. Finnick is Off to War AND WE ARE SADDDDD

_**Soli Deo gloria**_

**DISCLAIMER: I do NOT own the Hunger Games. :)**

I don't say anything about the Jews when I come back. Johanna goes back to her house with Annie after supper, and she doesn't say anything either. But at the table, which even Haymitch is at, picking at his curried veggies, Finnick makes our what-our-news-would-be irrelevant.

"I'm joining the army," he says.

Instantly, I feel the breath knocked out of me. I stand stone still, but Effie cries out, shocked. The little children stare at him as if he has become a ghost. Annie turns pale, but not so much that she is pure white. I have a feeling she knew this beforehand.

But Haymitch doesn't seem perturbed at all. He shovels another bite into his mouth and says, "When are you joining? How long?" He doesn't seem disturbed at all that his hired hand is going to quit to join the war, to the battle lines, to defend the home front. My mouth has gone dry. But Haymitch says, "You're going down to the recruitment office, well, when?"

"I was thinking in the next couple of weeks. I'd like to help break the victory garden in before I head out," Finnick says.

Johanna stares at him. She knew. She knew beforehand as well. Finnick is her best friend and she is not raging at him, heavily breathing and throwing things at him. She's already done that. Now all she can do it accept it.

The time passes then so fast that I can barely grasp it. The fact that he is leaving hangs like a long, grey cloud over the entire estate. The manor feels it, as does the weather. The snow has turned into drenching rain that pours down the hillside and runs into the roads. This makes the dirt soft enough to dig into, and one day Finnick and I break into the mud to start up a victory garden. All over the village there are posters encouraging us strongly to start growing our own vegetables. Haymitch has been doing that already, but since our arrival has brought so many more people to the house, the plot must be made.

Prim sits on the front porch in the bleak, cool weather. Beside her is the old goat, which she has named Lady. It's recovered quite well from a week of sitting by the warm fire under Prim's tender, patient hand. My sister sits by that goat for hours; tries to make her and Buttercup become friends. Both Buttercup and I think this is a useless endeavor, but Prim keeps at it. Now she has a baby bottle that she has found covered in dust in the cupboard full of warm water; with this she tries to feed Lady. It seems to work.

Prim has deemed that fresh air would be good for Lady, and so she watches us, not willing to try to step away from the still weak goat, as our shovels force their way into the grass and pull out the mud.

"What made you make that decision?" I say. I don't face Finnick as I ask this. I want his answer, but I don't want to see his face when he answers. I want to know why he wants to go to the blood, the filth, the explosions, the enemies, the tanks, the guns, the wounds, the weapons. I want to know what drives him to this violence that killed my father.

"Which decision of mine are you questioning?" Finnick asks. His voice sounds grim.

"The one about joining the army. That one," I say.

He rests against his shovel, which is sinking into the ground. "Katniss, have you ever watched something happen around you, and you're not a part of it? And you feel so left out because everyone else is doing it that it's something that consumes you until you're pained into doing it?"

"Fighting to your death. What a strange thing to want," I say.

"It's nice to know the support I need when I fight for my country and peace is something I can depend on from you," Finnick says. His shovel crushes into the ground and heaves out such a pile of mud that it falls near Prim, making her look startled.

"I just don't see why you want to go die," I say, looking into his face. And I'm furious at him. What glory is there in a slow, agonizing death?

"I may not die. Ever thought that? Ever thought that I can fight and come home alive?" Finnick wants to know, his voice a hiss, his anger at me apparent.

I scrap away the upper layer of earth, revealing clay spotted dark soil. My strokes with the shovel are harsh, quick, angry. "Ever thought about how you're leaving Annie? How can you do that?"

His face is covered in emotions right then. And I'm so angry I don't care how insensitive I may be perceived at being. "Finnick, my father died. My mother broke down into a state of depression. And she's still stuck in it. I can't trust you not to get killed. Because I can't see that happen to someone else again."

I finish my work in silence and then throw the shovel, leaving it to Finnick to put away. Put a little more farmwork on him until he leaves. Make his last few days count. I stalk past Prim, who has Lady laying across her lap, sucking away at the baby bottle.

Annie has been experimenting with recipes ever since we've been here. Finnick and Effie were never picky with their food. Least of all was Haymitch. But she decided to make things exciting for the sake of the children. She's enchanted by them, watching them with awed eyes. Almost like she's never seen a child before this.

She's in the kitchen now, working away at a tomato and carrot bread. She has gotten the recipe from a pamphlet from the war office. Johanna's always bringing to Haymitch's the newest war propaganda. She enjoys the war, almost, because she likes fighting for freedom and peace and seeing the Nazis get a beating.

Annie notices my temper and says, "Are you all right, Katniss?"

I shake my head as I grab my bow and arrows from where they stand by the door. I'm always going out, away from this place whenever I can. I've been getting better at my hunting. Last trip brought back squirrels that were roasted with old, wrinkled potatoes that took Annie an hour to hunt down in the cellar.

I go out to hunt because I cannot stand being in that house with Finnick. In my anger, I am able to shoot two squirrels and a rabbit. The anger powers with my adrenaline, and my catch is good.

But my temper is still flared when I am back at the house.

Still, later that night, only because of her innocent face, do I agree to go with Annie along with Johanna to see Finnick off at the war office tomorrow.

* * *

I stand in the background, surrounded by soldiers of all sizes and shapes, ages. Most in the younger twenties. I see a girl hug her brother goodbye, saying, "Good luck, Gloss." What a strange name, but I have no words in retribution when my name is what it is.

I stand alone. I'm waiting for the paperwork to be done. Johanna is signing Finnick up, getting all his information down. Annie has not left his side all morning. His hand is fused around hers, holding hers so tightly that they've both gone pale hours ago.

We walked here from Mags' house. All the children and Effie and Haymitch had wished Finnick a goodbye at the manor. Haymitch had managed to stand up straight and shake his hand gravely. The drunkard may not get out of his study more than once every day, for we barely see but rather smell the drunkenness on his lips, but he had come out to wish well the man fighting in the war. After all, Mr. Abernathy had been a soldier in the first World War. I think that is a particular reason he has been bitter.

Effie had soaked her handkerchief and wrinkled it by twisting it around her fingers. The children all hugged Finnick very bravely. None of them cried, for they didn't know him for so long. They have grown so solemn, like this war has hardened them. They saluted him, each one, even little tittering Posy, who didn't understand what she was doing but did it anyway.

Annie didn't come to the house at all. We went to Mags's house to get her and Johanna. Mags can barely speak; her dialect, combined with her gargled voice and pronunciation, makes her words barely distinguishable, but her sadness over the loss of Finnick to the war is visible as she hugs him, kisses him on the cheek, and pats his shoulder. Then she pats Annie's and Finnick's joined hands and smiles, like she has given her seal of approval on it.

They come back now, from the recruitment desk. Finnick is dressed for traveling. He's going to a camp for training. It's hard to think that his golden hair will be cut short.

"The train's going to leave in twenty minutes. We have to hurry," Johanna says. She guides us through the office and to the train station, which is, as usual, busy these days. Her commands are short and curt. She's trying to hide whatever emotion she has for Finnick away from us.

She knows her way around the train station, and she gets Finnick his ticket very quickly. She skips to the front of the line, purses her red lips, and flirts shamelessly, her high heeled shoe going up in the air. She came prepared. She smiles brilliantly and walks away with a ticket, holding it up with a cock of the head and a look demanding some sort of thank you.

We run to the platform, and I get flooded with memories of the station in London. My mother's weary, but hopeful, face. The tired lines in Hazelle's face as she said goodbye to her babies. Both are back in the city, childless and lonely. A pain stings in my chest as Johanna rounds us and says, "It's time to say goodbye. We have five minutes."

Finnick gives Johanna a hug, despite how she is not affectionate. But she returns it to him and then bows her head, shaking his hand. And I know then that whatever friendship the two have, it's a topsy-turvy friendship, filled with sarcasm and wit, but respect. They respect each other.

And another pang hits me in the chest. No new letter from Gale, and I'm missing him more every second.

Finnick turns to me and we shake hands, and he says, "Living in the house has been better with you lot in there, honest."

"Good," I say.

"And you'll be able to handle all the farmwork? Dah, what a stupid question. All you do is work," Finnick says. But he smiles at me, like he isn't going off to war.

The train whistle blows and the conductor calls for boarding. Finnick kisses Annie then, both of their pairs of eyes closed, their hands clutching the other as tightly as they can. Then he leans against her shoulder and I feel the urge that I should look away, but I keep watching them. Because I don't understand how you can love someone that much and then leave them to fight, to walk alongside the shooting bullets and the weapons, the blood pouring from wounds, with the sounds of the screams of the dying soldiers who have no hope to survive this. I don't understand.

The train whistles again and Finnick pulls away. Annie stands next to Johanna, who puts her arm around her, and he says, "Don't forget to write."

"That depends on what price paper is. You may have to wait," Johanna says, cocking her head to the side.

"And I was just about to say 'Don't keep me waiting'," Finnick says, sounding a little mock-sad.

"Goodbye, Finn," Annie whispers.

He shares a look with her and says goodbye just as the whistle blows again. He says it louder once he is on the platform, and then there's the final two short whistles signaling to all that the train is taking off. The train starts to chug and he waves, one amongst many soldiers waving goodbye to their loved ones on the platform, some for the last time.

* * *

Johanna is in a sour mood when we get back. She stays for lunch, her arms folded as she stares at the table. Annie doesn't cook. Prim and Effie somehow managed to make something for lunch. It's sandwiches, but it's something, and I didn't know that either of them could cook. Prim would help me prepare our meals in London, but I was the cook and she fetched everything.

Johanna goes to join Haymitch at a game of poker in his study while I help with dishes. Dishes are an automatic thing. I can think while I scrub at the plates and burn my hands with the hot water and dry it away with the towel.

With Finnick gone, there's me to do the farmwork. No point in asking Haymitch to do it. I don't trust him to do it well anyway. He's always drunk, too. And I'm a little fearful that he could hurt himself with a pitchfork.

There's the horses to take care of, water, feed, wipe down, walk, make sure they get shoed, make sure the children don't get trampled underfoot by them. The geese I have been helping Prim take care of already. The goat is entirely Prim's responsibility, and I trust her to take care of her. I'll get all the children to help me with the Victory garden. We can handle this without Finnick.

After all, there's no way we can hire another man. They've all gone to war.

I go up the stairs once the dishes are done to relay this to Johanna and Haymitch, that I will resume responsibility, when I find them in a heated conversation.

"I hear from the office that the Jews are getting worse," Johanna says. "The Nazis are rounding them up more and more. Feel sorry for them."

"Not only the Jews, you know," Haymitch says around a cigarette. I figure he has an everlasting supply of them hidden somewhere in this house, probably in the boxes I found sealed off in the attic. He turns to me and says, "Pull up a chair. Johanna, deal her a hand."

A bunch of cards are slammed onto the table up where I pull my chair. I take a seat and analyze my cards. Though I hardly care about the game, I don't think Haymitch or Johanna do either. It's something to keep our hands busy while the discussions hold out attention.

"Have you heard of what's been happening to all the Jews in Germany and the places they hold, sweetheart?" Haymitch says.

I put down a card. "Not exactly." My heart pounds within me as I try to hold a calm demeanor. But I remember in my head those two redheaded children in the woods. They were just trying to escape Hitler. But they got caught by one of the Allies. I don't know their fate, and I don't think I want to know. There's nothing I can do. So I try to put them out of my head.

It's hard, though.

"They've been taken to 'work' camps, as the damn Nazis call them," Haymitch says. Smoke from his cigarette fills the air. He sighs. "I highly doubt the work is desirable."

"I highly doubt the Nazis would treat what they deem 'parasites', as dear Hitler calls them, like humans," and Johanna slams a full house onto the table. Her hand holding her cigarette is twitching as Haymitch gathers the cards to deal out. "Not only have they got Jews going in, I've heard word of the disabled, the gypsies, the homosexuals; well, pretty much anyone who hasn't any blond hair and blue eyes that aren't perfectly, quote on quote, normal," Johanna goes on to say. "But they don't only have them working at those hellholes."

"What do they do there?" I ask.

"Oh, innocent, innocent Katniss," Johanna says. Her voice holds no sarcasm but coldness. "They gas them. I've heard they stick them in chambers where they trap them with gas that chokes them, replacing the air there." She takes a deep breath. "Ain't that just something, Katniss?"

I've gone blank, with a choked feeling inside. "That's sick."

"Damn straight. Nazis are sick, and they think what they're doing is justified," Haymitch says. He blows on his cigarette, leaving a silence in the room.

That's when I hear the little panting breaths outside the door, which I scramble to in a minute and open to see Prim, who looks like the wind has been knocked out of her. Her eyes bug out of her face like a fly's, and she whispers, "Is that true, Katniss? The Nazis gas people to death?"

Prim, despite growing up in a war, is innocent, pure and true in a filthy world. She thinks the best of people, tries to, at least; she's calm and quiet in the background with hope for the future. She can't bear to think of something dying; to think of a large genocide of people dealt by the hand of another people is making her look like she has to thrown up.

I sigh and try to reassure her somehow, running my hand through her hair as we go into our room. My mouth makes soothing noises, like how a mother bear calms down her cubs from thunder. Prim sits on her bed and I sit next to her, place her head against my strong shoulder and feel her trembling, see her shaking hands.

"Does that happen, really, Katniss?" Prim whispers, sounding calmly hysterical.

"Yes," I say, and her breath catches. "But far away from here. It's safe here."

"They won't invade us and put us in the chambers, Katniss, will they? What if we somehow get captured? What if Gale gets caught?" Prim says, looking up to look into my face. Her face looks pale and grey at the same time.

I can only answer one of those questions with absolute certainty. "Prim, I swear I will never let you get sent to such chambers. You should have no danger of getting gas." I don't know the future. I don't know if this country will get invaded or not. But I know that my Prim has blonde hair and blue eyes. They would never kill her. Never.

Prim looks like she's on the verge of crying, but she leans on me and hugs me as tightly as she can, burying her face into my shoulder.

And I just hold her on the bed for I don't know how long, until I'm sure that all her tears are spent and she is no longer so fearful. I highly doubt she will be fearless, but I don't want her to live in constant fear of being killed by people who look like her.

That night, it's late and dark and cold outside. The lights are turned gas because Effie doesn't want to have electricity running as the rain and thunder and lightning pour down onto us. It's by candlelight I enter our room to see Posy and Prim together in Prim's bed.

I have a word to say, about Posy being big enough to sleep by herself, but she is nothing but a little child, innocent and sucking her thumb. So I walk over to them and placing the candle on the sill by the window, which shows the whipping rains. I say, "It's time for bed."

"We know. We already said our prayers," Posy says matter-of-factly.

I nod. "That's good," and tuck them into the bed, covering them with the blanket. I sit back on the balls of my heels and say, "Do you want a bedtime story?" I'm not open to telling stories, but once someone prods me enough, I'll tell stories. Gale would laugh and poke me, teasing me until I relented. Rory and Vick love them, and sometimes I tell them in the dining room. Annie always listens quietly, like she doesn't dare make a sound if she could miss a word. Effie will put down whatever she is doing and listen, not saying a word as well.

I've even see Haymitch listen in the background. Though he cradles a bottle, his eyes are sober. Like my words of the past bring back something for him, and he's not listening to my words but listening to whatever memories replay in his head.

Posy shakes her head. Prim says, her voice soft and sweet, "Can you sing for us, Katniss?"

Singing. I rarely sing, even for Prim. My father used to sing so much; just singing reminds me of his voice blended with mine, sounding so much better and beautiful than mine ever could. How he would enchant my mother with his voice, how he loved her. Singing reminds me of the raw, piercing pain that I got the day we received a telegram telling us of his death.

But I remember a lullaby from when Prim was a baby, when I stood by her cradle and my father rocked it with his foot and taught me the song, line by line. And so I sing it now, brushing the little girls' hair from their faces. It's a fantastical lullaby, of innocence, of beauty and a pureness that cannot be had here. Not in England. Not in anywhere around the world. Not when we're at war.

And yet I try to forget all the war, all the brutality, as my light voice fills the air, throaty and soft, hitting each word with a powerful blow, to really hit each one home to the girls, to let them know that I mean them. And for one beautiful moment, we get lost in a world of meadows and willow, soft grass, sweet dreams, rays of the moon, and a paradise that is not of this cruel world.

I lastly kiss the girls' foreheads as the last words slip from my lips. Their eyes flutter shut and I stand up and leave with the candle, closing the door carefully behind me.

I stand out on the back porch for hours. The rain pours and I watch with my arms folded, my stare cast over the farm. This is mine to possess. No one else is going to take care of it, and so I will have to. And I wonder how this farm looked when Effie and then Finnick first came here. How Haymitch ever managed without them. How he ever managed to live at all.

By the time I go back into the house, my candle has burned down. The wick smokes slightly as it wavers, delicate to any breeze. The house is dark when I enter it. Annie had gone home with Johanna before the rain had started, so I'm not worried about _them_. I'm a little more anxious about us, for this house creaks in the rain, which drums down on the roof like someone's tossing rocks onto it.

I slowly make my way through the house, the little candle hardly a help in getting around the furniture that stand in my way everywhere. The winds shake the house and my trembling hand runs up the banister as I slowly walk up the stairs. In the hallway, I see the white plate the window casts against the ground, and see the darting bits of rain that look like rice as they fall from the sky and crash to the ground. A flash of lightning hits the earth, and then I slowly make my way down the hall to the bathroom.

After using the toilet, pulling the little balled chain, I wash my hands. The water, freezing cold, runs past my hands and my candle's flame dances, flickers uncertainly. And I hear the thunder following the lightning.

In the mirror my braid is shown to be needed to be redone. My face, olive-colored, is little frightened by a thunderstorm. I have faced far worse than bad weather.

But then I hear a loud noise above my head. One that sends tremors through my bones.

This requires another candle. I approach the door that leads to the attic, which is dusty and holds boxes of miscellaneous sizes, and a mannequin that I suppose is Effie's. The doorknob is gripped in my hand, which is trembling violently now. I take a deep breath. There's probably nothing to investigate. It's the storm playing tricks on me. It's the war warping my brain to think that there are Nazis in the attic, waiting to storm and take us all to gas chambers.

My steps up the stairs are quiet and firm, like ones I would have in the woods. The rain is all I can hear. Even my breathing is silent.

I shift the candle around, take in the dusty attic. It's a sloped roof, with windows showcasing the weather. Stacks of boxes. Old Christmas decorations. Stuffed animals, like taxidermy. Piles of bouquets of dried flowers. Nothing suspicious.

Someone sneezes. It's not me. And I wish I had brought a weapon.

"Hello?" I say. There's nothing else off of my head I can think to say. Stupid. Stupid.

A shifting. A sound. I walk closer, frightened, but I know that if the something hasn't come after me first, it won't try to.

I also know a provoked animal fights to defend itself.

I really hope it's just some animal.

"Hello?"

An owl. A squirrel. Something.

Please.

And then I see a hand, a human hand, and I back up.

The person's hand moves. The person moves forward.

My mouth hangs open. I'm numb.

Animals can tell when its prey is frightened.

I am so frightened.

The figure steps forward, too close to me, and there's pleading in his eyes as he puts a finger to his lips and whispers, "Ssh. _Please._"

I'm too shocked to move. Blonde hair. Blue eyes. Male. Older than me, but maybe not.

A Nazi.

I find my legs and make for the door.

**BA BA BA BA CLIFFIE**


	5. PEETA IS HERE

_**Soli Deo gloria**_

**DISCLAIMER: I do NOT own the Hunger Games. ****Yes, and so all the mysterious good stuff grows deeper. BWUAHAHHAHAHA. Here we go:**

"Wait, don't!" he says. But I barely hear him. I'm running to the stairs, and there's nothing he can do. He can gun me down, he can take me down, but he will have to catch me first. That I will not have.

But then I'm tripped. My breath is caught gone, and my candle goes out, leaving me in darkness. With a Nazi.

My death is inevitable.

I am going to die.

I flip onto my back, wanting to face the man who is going to take my life. He's already on top of me, saying, almost hissing, in a foreign accent, "No, shhh, be quiet, _please_!"

"Kill me already. Do it fast!" I manage to choke. Please don't choke me. Please don't torture me. Please don't do what you will with me. Kill me quickly, and my sister as well.

"Kill you?" he says. And he's still and I can truly tell what he looks like. He's got an almost kind face, with blonde hair that hangs around the sides and top in curls. Blue eyes that are worried stare back at me. I choke down a breath, and he says, his face next to mine, his voice smooth and quiet, "Please be quiet. I'll get off of you if you promise to _please _not leave. I'm not going to kill you. Please. I'm not going to kill you."

I stare back at him. My mouth has not gone dry. So I spit in his face.

He is thrown off in a second, having been startled. That is all I need. My legs kick back, and even my nightgown doesn't hinder me. I get up, scrambling, not even going to get the candle as the lightning flashes, cracking against the sky, and lights the way to the sky.

I'm at the door to the stairs when I hear, "I'm not a Nazi! I'm a Jew!"

And I stop dead in my tracks. Stupid. Stupid. My brain is screaming at me to move, move my legs, move my arms, do _something_. But I betray my body, and it takes almost a minute, but I slowly turn to stare at the boy, my body heaving with heavy breathes. On his shirt, which he is pointing to fiercely, like it's a lifeline, is a yellow, six-pointed star. On it in curly black bold writing is the word 'Jude'.

He's breathing heavily as well, covered in a sheen of sweat, despite the fact that I can see his breath also in this cold attic, so close to the sky. But his voice is calm as he says, a hint of an accent to his voice, "Please. This—my hair, my eyes, they are features of a German. But I—_AM_—a—Jew, I swear." He sighs as he looks at the floor. "I wouldn't be wearing this badge if I wasn't."

Something in me crumbles at the sight of his weariness. Another part tells me it's a trick. Something to get me to sympathize with him. A tactic.

I inhale and say in a heavy, fierce whisper, "What are you doing here?"

"Escaping. What else?" he says.

"The Nazis," I whisper, almost awestruck. This is a boy running away from wherever he was from to escape the Nazis. That means one thing: he was in a place where it was either a warzone, or a Nazi-occupied country. And that thought scares me, and so I say, my voice biting with anger, "Where are you from? Which country? How did you escape? How did you get here? WHY are you here?"

He stares at me, and a hint of a smile appears on his face. It looks out of place amongst the streaks of dirt and sweat and mud across his face. But it does. Like his face was once used to smiling, but has hardened slightly. Resolved to hide away in such a time. And he says, his voice lighter, almost relieved, "Aren't you going to take me to the authorities?"

I stare at him for a long time before I find my tongue. "I don't approve of their methods. You shouldn't be arrested for trying to escape Hitler." The last few words come out as a whisper, almost non-audible at the end. I look at my hand, which has its fingernails cut nicely.

I whip my head back up. "Not that you're going to be allowed to stay here."

"I know," he says.

"It's trespassing," I say.

"I know," he says. He eases himself onto a box and folds his arms over his chest. It isn't an arrogant gesture. Rather one that signifies that he is trying to keep warm, despite the sweat. This I realize was due to my investigating.

I sigh and walk through the attic. I can feel his eyes on me. So I turn and don't keep my back to him. Keep him in my sight at all times while I fetch him a blanket. I toss it over to him, don't hand him it. I want to stay as far away from him as possible. He doesn't seem to care as I carefully sit on a box. He wraps himself in the blanket and says something in his native language. He coughs and looks up at me, and says, "I'm sorry. Thanks."

"How can you speak English?" I ask.

"It's the language we practiced at home. Along with Polish and Hebrew, of course," the boy says. "My father used to live in England. He loved it. My—my _imah_—_mother_, she preferred the Polish. Wanted us to fit in."

"You were an immigrant to that country?" I ask.

"No. I lived there my entire life. My parents. They are—_were_"—he coughs—"the immigrants." He looks back at me with almost trusting eyes. Because I haven't turned him in, because I haven't screamed and run through the house to let everyone know of his presence. Because I have given him a blanket, he trusts me.

"What's your name?" I ask, wondering if it is particularly foreign sounding.

"Peeta. Peeta Mellark," he says, his voice a whisper. He licks his lips and says daringly, "And what is yours?"

"Katniss," I whisper.

"Katniss," he says, nodding, as if he likes the sound of my name on his lips. "That's a good name."

My father picked out my name. This brings back an abrupt memory of him, and I try to cast it out as I stand up and say, "I'm not turning you in, but I require some answers."

"I'm an open book," Peeta says, spreading his hands out. He looks so defeated, so pale and shadow-covered, that the words sound sad. He leans against the sloped wall and says, "Ask away."

"How'd you escape? Tell me everything from the old country until now. Now." My voice holds no patience. Answers. I want them. And if I have enough information on him, I can hold it against him, and maybe I can get Haymitch to do something about him. I can't hold him a secret.

Peeta takes a deep breath, and his air comes out in thicker clouds of steam as he talks, explains, waving his hands a bit and looking at the ground when he can't face me in the eye.

He lived with his two brothers and parents, and they had owned a bakery in Poland. He had had a good life until the Germans had come and taken over. The bakery had first been closed, then burned. The Stars were forced on each of their shirts, so they were able to be seen plainly. So everyone knows they were Jews.

"Then we were carted off in cars to the camp. I was separated from my parents. My mother went to a different camp, for women. I remained at a camp with my brothers until I was being transported to another camp. A larger, far more disgusting one, from what I had heard. And then on the road, we passed over a bump. It was near a bunch of woods. I managed to roll off and had to get passed over by a few cars. One nearly took my nose. And then I run into the woods, hoping no one could see me. Because I knew that I would die in that camp. And there was no chance for me to save myself and my brothers. And they didn't want to risk escape. But I am damned for life as long as this war goes on. I was not going to be with my parents again. So I took the risk. I'd rather be shot than gassed."

He says this so simply, yet with so concealed emotion. Like he looks back on the story with regret, but also like he knows that there was nothing he could do. I get that feeling. Of not knowing what to do. Of not being able to control the situation you're in.

"So you somehow managed to get beyond the battle lines and country borders into England?" I say, my voice harsh.

He nods. "That's exactly what I did."

I stare at him. "And you escaped all the authorities."

"I had all the time in the world. Spring coming. Not winter. I was sneaking as I needed to," he says, almost accusingly. Like I'm saying that he should have been caught.

"Okay." I inhale. "Why'd you come in?" And then the obvious answer hits me so quickly I feel a headache. "To escape the rainstorm. Obviously."

"I normally stay in nature. I'm sorry for the intrusion," he says. Taking in his dirty, filthy, ragged clothes, I can tell he hasn't spent much time inside as of late. He sighs and hikes up his pant leg, saying, "I've been here for a couple days because of my leg."

The wound looks like a stab wound. Blood and pus leak out of the cut, which is long and deep. I almost gag. I'm horrible with wounds. I cannot take care of this. I throw him a distressed look. "How did you do that?"

"I tripped over farming equipment going through your stables," he says. Grimaces. As if he knows I'm going to soundly scold him.

All I say is: "It was the pitchfork, wasn't it?"

He nods.

I take a breath. But the sight makes me want to vomit. My mother would be so good in this situation. I want to run out into the storm, the raging lightning storm, rather than sit here and stare helplessly at the wound.

I straighten and say threateningly, "You better be grateful that I don't have something against you," and I race down the stairs to my room. The only person I truly trust in this house who can understand and help is Prim. I don't want to drag her into this, but I must. I will not having a dying boy up in the attic without some sense of hope for his life.

She wakes up with a gentle shaking at the shoulder. "Katniss," she says, surprised.

"You've got to help me," I say.

"What happened?" she says, already sitting up.

Posy stirs next to her, and I put a finger to my lips. Prim understands and hurries after me without another word. Her barefeet slap against the floorboards as we go up the stairs. I stop her at the top and say, "Prim, I need you to do something for me."

"Okay," she says.

"But you need to promise me you won't scream or run. I'll protect you. I just need you to do this one thing, and that's all, Prim, that's all," I say.

"Katniss," she whispers. "You're scaring me."

"Prim. Please. I wouldn't ask you to do this if it wasn't important," I say.

She nods then, sighs. "What is it, Katniss?"

I pull her out of the shadows and whisper, "It's not a Nazi." The perfect way not to scare your little sister in a dark, creepy attic in the middle of the night. She gulps but doesn't look afraid as she asks me, "Then who is in here?"

I nod towards Peeta. Prim is tight, white as a sheet for one moment before she rushes to him, fearless, and bends to his leg. She examines it with deft fingers for a moment, making him wince, and then she asks him in a voice that reminds me starkly of our mother, "What happened to this? This cut is so deep and wide."

"Pitchfork," Peeta says. I can definitely see the sheen of sweat on his face now. It's not from the anxiety of having someone discover him. It's his body fighting an infection.

If he throws up, I am leaving and never entering this attic again.

Prim seems to take this as an answer and turning to me, she seems to have grown a foot overnight. "Katniss, he can't stay here. It's too cold; it's not good for his fever. He needs a bed, I need some hot water, rags, blankets, some of Mr. Abernathy's alcohol. And some blankets. And we have to hurry—_please_, Katniss!"

That means we have to get him out of the attic. We need to hide him downstairs.

"We can't," I say.

"Of course we can," Prim says.

"No, Prim, we can't." My voice comes out cold, and her face freezes. "Jews are not welcome in this town, or anywhere in this country, Prim. It's the political side of England. If someone catches us with him in here, we may be prosecuted. Effie would have a fit, Haymitch—I don't even know what _Haymitch _of all people would think—"

"Katniss." Her voice is soft, commanding, hushing.

I close my mouth.

She says, "We can't let him die here in the attic."

A pause.

And then I see a light at the bottom of the stairs and a robed Effie Trinket coming up them with a candle, saying, "Katniss, Prim, is that you up here? It is the middle of the night! Gracious, what is it that you two are doing—"

Prim stares at me with wide-eyes. I spring into action. My hands find Effie's shoulders and I'm pushing her back, despite her protests, but Effie Trinket is stronger than I ever thought her. She's taller than me, but lighter, but she isn't now wearing her shiny high heels. She pushes against me, saying, "Katniss, what is it? Prim, are you there, dear? What sort of unearthly shenanigans are you doing?"

My grip slackens. My feet stumble backwards, and I hear her horrified gasp. "NAZI!" she yells, and she screams and hurries to the stairs calling desperately for the only man in the house to kill the German before we're all speared by him.

I run down after Effie. I feel half and half concerning the situation I leave up above me. Peeta is a strange man hiding in our attic, and the story he said could have been a fabrication, told with amazing emotions and great acting. But I also know that he has a deep cut in his leg. He can't do anything to sweet Prim, even if he wanted to, with motivation.

I stumble down the stairs straight into the chest of Haymitch Abernathy. Thank goodness he is wearing a shirt. And pants. And a bathrobe. But he looks angry, his face contorted.

"I was _trying _to sleep, sweetheart," he says as we shove each other off.

Effie comes from around the hall, panting. "Oh, Haymitch. Thank goodness you're up. There—"

"Better be something important. I won't have an imported French girl be crying wolf at me," Haymitch says. "And waking me up in the middle of the night. I don't like that."

Effie hurries on, not even caring that he has called her French when her accent wis so posh British. "Haymitch, there is a NAZI in the attic! I saw him with my own eyes, I swear!"

"Why were you up in the attic? Were you the noises that've been keeping me up?" Haymitch says. His body shifts from side to side, speaking of restlessness. "Are you on medication, Effie? Hallucinating? Because I highly doubt a _Nazi _could have just _waltzed _up into _my _attic without getting caught. Besides, if it was a Nazi, wouldn't he have murdered us in our beds already?" Haymitch wants to know. He raises his hands and says, "Tell me that, Effie."

Effie looks offended. "_Haymitch Abernathy! _Are you making sport of me?"

"Take my words as you will and let me get back to sleep before someone hears you and raises a false alarm and has the coppers coming to investigate for no good reason." Haymitch sounds angry.

"But _Haymitch_, there _is _a man upstairs! I do not make this up to play childish tricks on you, I swear it!" Effie says as Haymitch turns to go to bed.

I clear my throat, finding a good break in the conversation for me to break in. "She is right."

"What?" Haymitch says. He stops, his back to me, his hand on the doorknob.

I swallow. Force the words out. "There's a man upstairs. He's not a Nazi, though. He's a Jew. He's got the Star of David."

Haymitch moves faster than I thought he could. He goes up the stairs, leaving Effie to gape at me. I shrug and hurry after him, until we're both standing before Peeta, who stares at us with scared eyes, and Prim, who is focusing on his leg and nothing else.

"What the hell?" Haymitch says.

He doesn't sound angry. That's the first thing I notice. It's almost like he's realizing everything, and that's his immediate reaction.

"We need to get him in a bed," Prim says matter-of-factly, not looking up as she fixes his leg.

I turn away from the wound, the sight of the blood sending my mind into scrambles and my legs into jelly.

"What happened to your leg?" Haymitch asks.

Peeta explains while Effie frets right next to my ear. She's whispering about how this is all going to wake up the children, and what shall we do?

I have a feeling that Effie is going to be the one waking the boys and Posy up, at the rate of her fretting and whisperings. Her chirpy worry is setting me on edge, and I say, "We need to fix his leg."

"What are we going to do with him? Shall I call the force? Haymitch?" Effie says.

Haymitch stares down at him for a moment and then says, "Effie. Get him a bed. Primrose. You take care of the injury." He turns to me and says, "Don't let anyone in or out of the house. Nobody else needs to know about this."

Effie shuts up and things fall into motion. In an hour Peeta has a bed set up in a guest bedroom, at the far end of the hall. Effie frets outside the door, but helps Prim as she cleans up the wound with rubbing alcohol and warm water. Peeta doesn't complain, but winces uncontrollably as this happens. This makes me stand outside the door, not looking in. Guarding. I guard. I don't heal. That is Prim's skills. Something that I desperately lack.

Haymitch is strangely sober, and he comes up to me after pacing the floor and says, "What'd he tell you?"

At the end of my explanation (which I don't keep to myself, for I know that Haymitch, anyone, someone other _than_ me, needs to know), he stares at me long after I stop, and he asks thoughtfully, "And do you think he's lying?"

"I don't know what to think."

"What do you think we should do?"

"I don't know."

Haymitch scowls. "Come on, THINK, Katniss. Do you want to hand him over to the police to take care of?"

I shake my head hurriedly.

"Then we need to do something. Look, I know this house has recently become an orphanage, but usually it's not really THAT inhabited. So we're keeping him. Despite the fact that if he dies, I won't care. I'm not having the police running through here, thinking we're harboring a fugitive."

He turns away, and my tongue is uncontrollable. "But we are."

He tilts his head to me. His eyes are a sharp shade of grey. Clear. Not drunk. "But they don't need to know that."

The study door he closes slams with a thunk, making me slightly shudder. All is silent except for the storm and the quiet voices in the other room. I hear the rain falling down, still as loud and steady as it had been an hour ago. I hear Effie's voice talking quietly to Prim, unusually patient. I hear Prim talking to Peeta. Asking him about his pain.

But his answer is too quiet for me to understand.

I lean my head against the wall. Close my eyes.

I don't know why I'm doing this. Why can't it just be easier for me to drag him down to the police and let them take care of him. But maybe it was the fact that I saw two Jews get caught, captured, by the police, and that unsettled me. I could have done something, something, anything, something, _anything_. But I stood there like a frozen deer and let it happen.

But maybe it was the fact that his blue eyes were so innocent. Not criminal. And the police only capture criminals.

But he got into the country illegally.

But he was trying to escape the Nazis.

When are the pros good enough to out weigh the cons? Or are the cons too great?

It's a powerful headache in my head. I push the heel of my hand against my forehead and sigh. My body slides down the wall. I breathe.

This is all too much for one night.

**Now, some of you may think this story is moving too fast. Thing is, I post long chapters instead of several short chappies. Just pointing out. :)**

**Thanks for reading! Please review! **


	6. Peeta's In Danger, As Usual

_**Soli Deo gloria**_

**DISCLAIMER: I do NOT own the Hunger Games. Yes. I have fully introduced Peeta. Isn't he perfectly angsty and stuff? XD  
**

It's hard to hide Peeta.

We do not have police searching the manor looking for Jewish refugees, of course. It's hard to hide him from the children. For Prim is constantly by his side, tending to him and worrying over him. She barely spends time with Lady, for she is always with him. This causes suspicion amongst the Hawthornes, and they take to following her when she heads upstairs to find out what she's doing. Somehow, she gets them distracted and slips into the guest room. The key hangs on the edge of the top of the door. Luckily, even Rory is not tall enough to reach it, even if he wanted to.

Our moods change as well. Effie is more on edge, reprimanding, sharp. Her lips are pursed and she scolds harder if you're late to dinner. Haymitch is more surly, but he also disappears into Peeta's room. I catch snatches of their conversations. It's mostly about the war happening, and what it was like in Nazi country. I'd find him halfway out of his chair, his legs sprawled, his arms on the armrests with one holding a bottle tightly, talking to Peeta. They both seem to like the company.

I don't go in often. At night I stay in the doorway while he sleeps. I don't talk to him much after the first encounter. Mostly because I'm afraid of disturbing him. He fights the pain, the leg infection, to within an inch of his life. He's always so pink, hot to be around. He sweats like a pig, always with a cool wet cloth on his forehead. He sleeps often, often grimacing. Like he's fighting nightmares. Probably ones formulated by his experiences with the war. Prim has wrinkled lines in her forehead as she wipes at his forehead. She worries about him and wishes she could do something to ease his pain.

But also, I don't go after him because I don't know what to say to him. I'd rather avoid the awkward silence if I sat in the seat opposite him, but I don't know what to say. I'm sorry? Would I accuse him of trespassing? Be the angry home resider? But that's it. I'm not angry at him. I'm on edge. I'm suspicious of him, but only so much that I'm constantly looking over my shoulder, afraid that a policemen will be behind me.

It's a scary thought, to have a Jew in the house. The little children are puzzled as we disappear at odd hours, deliver strange items, especially hot water, upstairs, and are hasty and harsh in answering their questions. It's almost like there is a plague happening. We're all silent, serious, and fearful. The thought of Peeta hangs over us like a cloud.

We're also fearful of him dying. If he dies from the infection, this mess will be cleared up. But we are so human. We do not want him to die. I saw in his eyes how he has suffered already. His eyes were not that innocent. And I don't want him to suffer. I don't want him to die.

I'm so busy with the farm and breaking in the garden in. That helps with staying away from him. The Victory garden is a big project. As the next two months pass, I have the children (excepting Prim) help me plant and weed, tend and water. Though water is not an issue. We live in England, after all.

So the four of us are the only ones who know of him. We even hide him from Annie and Johanna. Annie is so sweet and innocent, so good and uncomplaining, never asking, when we request piping hot water to take upstairs. She must think that we're scrubbing or cleaning. She smiles and offers to help me bring the pot upstairs. I force a smile and refuse her offer.

But then Johanna finds out.

She comes early in the warm May air to play poker with Haymitch and bring the latest news of the war (a torpedo attack in the North Atlantic) and ends up searching for him upstairs. I'm in Peeta's room, getting ready to get a refill on the hot water. Prim dabs at his forehead and we look up to see Johanna in the doorway.

We're frozen, statues.

Peeta stirs in his sleep, disturbed.

Johanna watches with her dark, dark eyes, and says, "And how long has your guest been here?"

We say nothing. I want to shove her out of the room and make her deny everything.

"Come on. You can trust me. I'm Johanna. I go to the black market with you. Cut me a little slack, Katniss," Johanna says. The weak white light flooding through the window makes her hair, so short, look curled at the edges. She takes a step forward. Prim leans closer to Peeta and says boldly to Johanna, "Don't touch him."

This is startling. Prim has barely spoken to Johanna at all since coming here, if she can help it.

But Johanna takes it in stride. She says, "Course not, Prim," and takes the seat next to his bed. She turns to me then and says, "Who knows?"

"Effie. Haymitch. Prim. Myself. Now you." I feel annoyed with her. We have had him in our house for two months, and she has nonchalantly found us out. Haughty about it as well. And it burns me. I stare back at her, but she looks perfectly fine.

"Not even Annie, then? But after Finnick. Annie still hasn't figured it out yet. Not even the kids? Jeez, Katniss," Johanna says. Her tongue plays at the side of her cheek. "You run a secretive refugee camp here, don't you?"

"He snuck in. Trespassed. I didn't invite him in," I say. I should refill the pot. I stand up and stalk out of the room, brushing past Effie who finds that Johanna is in Peeta's room and has gone after me, asking about her and fretting. As usual. I ignore her and go down the stairs and stare angrily at the floor as Annie prepares the pot she already has on the wood stove for me.

Johanna is good on her promise to not speak of him, though. She stays for dinner, canned foods and sausage, and conspiratorially winks at me at random. I glare back at her. Angry. Because she is not a person I like. She's all flirt, sass, darkness. She loves playing with danger. I hate danger. I hate it because I have to protect Prim with it. With this, there is a definite option of Prim getting hurt. That's why I'm so careful about it. Try not to get into his situation too much. But that's hard when he lives in the same house as I do.

After dinner, when Effie is leaning against the counter, her foot, clad in high heel, in the air, talking to Annie, the radio plays next to her. Haymitch shaves away at a stick, determined. But he's listening to the radio. He needs something to keep his hands busy.

Prim sneaks upstairs until halfway up her hand is caught by Posy, and she is somehow dragged into a childish card game at the coffee table. She looks worriedly over to the stairs and has to be called back to reality by the impatient Hawthornes, who are beating her.

I stand and dry dishes next to Annie. Buttercup comes in from the back door and meows, irritated, at me. I bare my teeth and he scowls and takes to his rag box by the stove. The kitchen is quickly set with the smell of hot cat fur, and I feel the desperate need to kick him outdoors.

"Oh," Johanna says, making everyone turn to her. It's silent, for dramatic effect. All there is is the crackling of the fire. The sound of falling, gentle rain, not at all like the stormy night when I discovered Peeta. The crackly sounds of the radio.

Johanna straightens and reaches into her pocket and pulls out pieces of faded paper. No. Too thick to be paper. _Letters. _"Got these at the post." Annie is given one from Finnick, making her blush and turn pale and whisper to herself as she sinks to the floor, and my heart is pounding. I'm sure everyone can hear me. Letters. Maybe one from Gale. My mother. Someone. Anyone. _Please._

Two for Effie from her French friends. She scowls and touches her hand to her chest and ohhs and awws over the pieces of choice paper.

Haymitch gets nothing. As expected. And I realize that I don't know if there is anyone that would send Haymitch a letter. I've never seen any friends of his, except Johanna, and she barely counts. She's entertainment and someone to argue with. Not a friend.

But then it's my turn. and I can barely breathe and my hands tremble as my hands take the two letters that I receive. Two pieces of gold that I've been wishing for so long.

Despite the fact that I want to tear open the precious envelopes and devour the contents of the letters right there and then, I'd rather not do if where Effie can ask about my mother and Johanna and Haymitch can bombard me with questions to Gale from the warfront.

My feet, for some reason, carry me upstairs, and the door to Peeta's room slams closed and I'm sitting at the desk by the cold window. He sleeps soundly for once, still bright red with fever, as I forgo the letter opener on the desk and tear the line of the one from my mother with my quick fingers. The paper is torn and ragged at the edge as I pull it up and out, and it shakes in my hands.

_May 2nd, 1941_

_Dear Katniss, things have been going well here. I have adapted to the life of being a volunteer nurse, and the bombings have been continuing as usual. You might have heard, but Buckingham Palace was bombed. And then there was a deadly seven-day bombing in Liverpool that was devastating. I went out in a car there and tended to the wounded. There was so much blood, but I know that you hate to think of blood, so I will stop talking about it._

_It cheers me to think that you and Prim are doing well. Her goat sounds wonderful, and so good for her. The company you have may be unorthodox, but I gleaned from your previous letter that things are going well. Please keep your chin up, Katniss. If not for me, for your sister._

_Thank you for taking care of Prim and the Hawthorne children. Send them my love._

_Love, Mother_

The letter is slowly folded in my hands. Her words echo in my mind, her handwriting so familiar. It's strange to think my mother thinks so much of me when I think nothing of her. She believes she has gotten better. I don't. She believes that I have forgiven her. I don't believe I have.

I put that away slowly, and then reach eagerly for the next, last, precious letter.

So excited. Gale's handwriting reminds me of home.

_March 27th, 1941_

_Dear Katniss, the mail service is fast. Well, on my end. Your letter has been received and Katniss, your writing makes me miss home even more. It gives me more incentive to fight the Nazi bastards, of course, but it's a boost and also a letter of sorrow. I'm sorry my letter took so long in getting to you. But I can't control how the mail goes to and fro, Catnip. The war is as unreliable as anything._

_Sounds like the best thing, actually, to save the children, Katniss. Get them away from the madness. And I know you're devout to your house and whatnot, but it's for the best. To get away from the danger. Because I don't want my little sister bombed, Catnip. That'd be bad._

_I've heard of the current invasions in the countries around me. Obviously, they're going to tear out any and all countries I put down, so: S.  
_

S. I instantly recognize that to imply south. Gale and I always have a way to communicate that other people cannot get. We understand each other's minds so much that it is as if we are the same person. Our minds work the same. We are one.

_The weather is bad, as usual. The food as scarce and bad, as usual. The cheese we eat has mold. The soldiers have taken to playing games together to pass the time when we aren't guarding. The Leegs, two siblings, they look so alike that we confuse 'em. Now we can't. One got blown up. It's sad, but as is war, Catnip. Nothing any of us could have done._

_Hope you're doing well in the country. Get some fresh air, maybe kill a few things. Take care of Posy and Vick, and Rory and Prim. And yourself, Catnip. I know that you don't get along with strangers. Try, for their sakes._

_Thanks._

_- Gale_

I fold the paper carefully and hide it in my hands. All that is heard is the rain.

I don't know where Gale is exactly. The south can mean anything. But then he had mentioned cheese. Moldy cheese. We used to buy it together when we went to the market in London. The lady selling always bragged that it was better than the French cheese.

He must be in France.

Somehow that is relieving and terrifying. I suddenly go over every piece of information I have gotten from Johanna and gleaned from Haymitch's staticky radio. My mind goers blank and I can't think of anything. All I can think of is dates and French names that I cannot even fully remember, never mind pronounce. South . . . he must be in the south of France, but he knows that this information eats at me. What can I do if I know his location? Nothing. Absolutely nothing.

I hear a moan from the bed. Peeta, stirring. I turn and see his half-opened eyes. The fever has not diminished his blue eyes, as it has the rest of his body. I'm both surprised and pleased that he has lasted this long.

"Katniss?" he whispers.

"Yes?" I say.

"What are you doing over there?" he wants to know.

Saying that I received letters sound insensitive. After all he has been through, he is like Haymitch. Without anyone to send him letters. But the truth hurts. I know that much. And so I say, perhaps cruelly, "They are letters."

"Huh. From whom?" he wonders. He sounds more awake and wondering at this piece of information.

I'd rather not say, but since he has been in bed for two months battling an infected leg, which has not gotten any better from the look of disgust on Prim's face every time she unwraps it for another bandaging, I tell him. "My mother. And my friend Gale. He's fighting in the war."

"Fascinating," Peeta says. He winces from the pain, but otherwise dismisses it as he asks uncertainly, "He's your . . . friend?"

I frown. _"Yes." _It is unnecessary for him to pry into my personal affairs. I turn my back to him and scoop up my letters and nearly walk into Prim as she walks into the room. Her blue eyes are big and worried as she says, "Katniss, can you come with me?"

I nod. Her worry is perplexing to me, but I don't question her until we're out of earshot with Peeta. She closes her eyes and breathes for a moment. I kneel to her height and she says, "Katniss, I'm scared."

"Scared of what, Prim?" Not the gas chambers, please not the gas chambers . . .

"Peeta's leg. It's not healing. This house has lots of medical books that I've been searching through, and they say that he might die. I'm so surprised that he has lasted this long, Katniss. But his wound—it's weakened him. The infection is too much for his body to fight."

I have nothing. I have no words, no gestures, no fond phrasings to soothe my little sister. I know next to nothing in the medical field. What she has just related to me is more than I've known for the past seventeen years.

She gulps. But she says in a calmer voice, "But there is a solution that can fix everything. But I don't know how I can do it, Katniss."

"What is it? You can tell me, Prim," I say. My hands loop and my fingers join in circles around her arms, they are so thin.

Prim looks so serious now. "I can cut off his leg."

I stare at her. And all I can imagine in the blood. The sweat. The pus. The dirty sheets, the hot water. And Peeta surviving.

I close my eyes and nod. And the evening goes to hell after that.

Effie is assistant as Haymitch somehow takes over the operation. He scrubs his hands down, which is the first time I have ever seen him do that. Prim stands to the side and offers him the towel and looks relieved that he will help her. Even Johanna throws up her hands and decides to watch in the background, in case she needs to be a help.

First matter of business is getting all of the children to bed. This job is left to me, for I cannot stand the sight of blood. Just the idea of lopping off Peeta's leg makes me want to gag. Throw up. But that is not an option. So I remain calm and maternal as I get Posy in her nightgown and insist urgently that the boys brush their teeth. They're a little wary at this, but they follow my demands. Luckily, it still gets dark early. So I tell a story, a story of animals and hunting, which the boys are excited by.

I hug them good night and walk down the hallway a step or two with Posy draped over my shoulder, terrified at the thought of a shot animal. I reassure her with mild tones that the story is not real, but my mind is not with it. My heart isn't with it. My mind and heart are back in that guest room, because I can hear moaning even from down the hall. Haymitch didn't want to knock him out, not with his damaged state already, so they're getting him drunk to distract him from the pain. But not enough.

Posy prays under her breath and I smooth her hair as I do with Prim and swallow and try to remain stoic, but I can hear them in the back of my mind. a creature in pain.

"What is that noise?" He is loud. Posy can even hear him.

"Probably Haymitch. Someone's drunk," I say.

As a four-year-old, she accepts this and her eyelids droop as I place her in her bed.

I want to stay as far from that room as I can, so I pace. I pace the hall until my feet hurt and my head pounds with an ache. The groans and moans coming from within that room are driving me insane, filling me with anxiety and nausea.

But then I finally can't take it.

I open the door to see blood. Blood on the sheets. Peeta's hurt leg is a stub, covered in miles of wrappings. He's sweating, pained. The coppery smell of blood hangs in the air like a plague. Prim is patting his forehead with a wet cloth. Haymitch is business-like, gruff, as Effie stands by, pale. She will faint. I will faint. The smell is overwhelming, the sight, the knowledge of what has just happened.

Haymitch says—no, barks, "Shut the door, sweetheart."

I somehow do this. I don't know why. I should run, get out of here, but I'm transfixed, almost in a spell, while looking with horror at the hospital-like bed in the guest room.

"Katniss," Prim says, looking up. Her eyes are clear, worried.

"Yes?" Somehow my mouth is not dry enough to inhabit my words.

"He needs more alcohol," she whispers.

I gulp and see the bottle by the bed. My job. I somehow come to the bottle and my hand hangs over his mouth. The bottle tips and touches his hot, dry lips. He winces, his eyes still closed, and I feel like running. But I stay. A few drops go into his mouth. He swallows.

Haymitch stands back and wipes at his forehead. "That's the best we can do."

A clock is heard, and Johanna says quietly, "Midnight."

Midnight. Will he make it through the night? Then I remember.

I meet Prim's eyes and say, "Happy birthday."

She gives me the slightest of smiles. Thirteen-years-old and helping with surgery.

The best birthday present for her would be for Peeta not to die.

So as a birthday present, so she can sleep, I am the one who volunteers to spend the first shift of the night with him. Keep his temperature down, keep him calm. Everyone is relieved by this. Haymitch goes to scrub his arms and drink, Effie trotting after him to help him. I kiss Prim good night and she yawns as she heads out.

Johanna watches me as I take a seat by his bed. She says, "You're going to stay there? For the next few hours?"

I gulp. "Yes."

She scoffs. "You're ready to throw up."

"Shut up."

"Fine." She's at the door. "Night, Katniss." And she's gone.

Leaving me alone with the patient.

I don't say anything. My mouth is dry and there are no words to say to him. I wipe at his skin instead. Someone, I don't know who, gives him sponge baths, so other than the blood and pus and sweat, he is clean. His skin is soft and burning to the touch.

"Katniss?" he slurs. He is drunk on Haymitch's white liquor.

"Yes?" I whisper, glad for a distraction.

"That's you?" he whispers.

"Yes. It's me," I say.

"Am I dead? Did I go to heaven?" he breathes.

Funny, that he is lucid enough to think I am in heaven with him. "No," I say, swallowing as I keep my eyes from wandering to his wound. "You're not. You've just . . . just lost your leg."

"I did?" he whispers. He grimaces. "That's the pain."

"Yes," I say.

"Katniss. Katniss, please make it go away," he says. His _voice _aches.

I shake my head. My hand shakes on his forehead.

"I can't," I say.

But there must be some way to do it. Some way to relieve him of his pain. And I see his hand, crossed with pink and green veins. My fingers catch his and hold his hot hand in mine as tightly as I can without hurting him. He doesn't wince at the grip. He almost seems to relax a little. Breathes easier.

"Does it look . . . good?" he whispers.

"It's bandaged." Thank goodness. If not, I would flee and never come back.

"Okay," he whispers. His grip on mine grows tighter, like strength has come back into it. He blinks and whispers, "Katniss, don't let go."

"Okay. I won't," I say.

He takes this as an answer and lays his head back on his pillow, into a pool of collected water and sweat. He breathes through his nose, fluttering the bedsheet and covering our intertwined hands with a warm breeze.

He falls asleep and I never do. My hand falls asleep in his, cold and awkward. But he doesn't stir or waver.

In the middle of the night Johanna hits my shoulder. I move, nearly falling over with sleep. But I hear her voice say that his fever is broken.

Sleep. Sleep. Sleep.

I'm woken by Prim shaking my shoulder excitedly. "Katniss, Katniss, he's going to be fine!"

He has fresh color in his face. He even smiles a little. The burden on my chest grows lighter in relief.

Prim beams. Haymitch, in his own begrudging way, seems relieved. The knowledge of his recovering being imminent makes Effie fan herself with her handkerchief. Johanna smirks and that day, he's made known to the children and Annie. We know that we can no longer keep him hidden. Not when his voice, sounding beautifully alive, resounds through the dark manor like a bright light. For Prim's birthday, he's made known to the members of the household. They all swear to secrecy, so seriously that they're sincere. A word, and we're done.

And somehow, I believe that maybe things can be easier now.

How wrong I can be.

**DUH DUH DUH.**


	7. When The Undersees Came To Stay

_**Soli Deo gloria**_

**DISCLAIMER: I do NOT own the Hunger Games. In answer to I am that Writer's question about what does Soli Deo gloria mean, it is a Latin term meaning Glory to God alone. It's a classic term used by Bach, Handel and Graupner and I was inspired to use it by one of my favorite fanfic authors, GarvinMark, who writes grand Tangled stories. :)**

Letters in wartime are precious. Beautiful, tear-jerking pieces of paper that are clutched and crumpled and held tight, a memento of the sender. They're wished upon and upheld as wonderful communication. My letters are folded away and saved for rainy days and quiet evenings when I need to hear someone talk to me, just me, in words that flow and fill my entire body.

But the one Johanna delivers one June day turns our world around.

It's not for me. It's for Haymitch. He never gets letters, but he's the one it's addressed to, and he's the one reading it with furrowed brow.

We all watch him as he reads it. We're all downstairs. Peeta is laying on one of the couches. He has been on that bed for two months, and just the joy of going downstairs has done wonders for him. His face is rosy with color but not fever. He smiles with ease now, and is good with the children. Since he is immobile for all hours, they pounce on this opportunity to have someone play card games and read them stories all the time. He seems grateful for the distraction, but falls asleep just after supper, so tired out.

His leg is doing better. He can't walk on it, but Johanna is somehow making an arrangement for a fake leg. A wooden one, like a pirate's.

Annie dries dishes and watches, bug-eyed. She's changed a little in the past month. Her body has grown out, her limbs more tired. She sits down so much more than usual, drinks tea like the true Brit she is, and has tired smiles. Effie pats her arm but keeps her eyes on Haymitch, anxiously waiting for something from him. A yell. A question. Fury.

We do not expect silence.

He puts down the paper and walks out and sits on the porch.

Effie and Johanna and I jostle each other as we run to the paper. Effie manages to get it first. I take a step back as she reads, her eyes growing wide, and she takes out another note from the paper. She is pale, quiet, for a moment, before she hands the note to me.

I tentatively take it and flip it around. It says _For Katniss_. That sends my heart palpitating. I open it with trembling hands as I take a seat in the living room. I stare blankly at the letter, taking in the words when they stop appearing as blurry.

"Katniss? Are you all right?" Peeta says, his voice soft and worried.

I can't speak. This handwriting is familiar. Old, fading in memory, until I see, hear the author's voice, and I can hear the words coming out of her mouth.

The letter is from Madge.

Madge Undersee. Her father was the one who had introduced me to her as Madge, not as her given name, Margaret. The Undersees used to live in the upper part of London, nowhere near the slums where I live. But Madge used to go to the same primary school I did. She traded with me. She was akin to strawberries.

We never talked much. I didn't have any friends at that time, or barely even any now, but I could count her as one. She sat with me and talked with me occasionally. She wore pretty dresses but never bragged. Her father could afford them and piano lessons; he was a government official.

Or, _was_. For our government, anyway.

Madge is German and her father is a Nazi.

He moved Madge and his wife to Germany three years ago. A year later, their country was in war.

We've given up on communications. I'm sure that every letter from England to Germany and back would arouse suspicion. Madge must not like me anymore if she dares send a letter from her prominent Nazi family to us. I look around, alarmed, but no coppers are in sight.

"Katniss?" I hear.

I turn to Peeta. My voice sounds dead. "Yes?"

"You look pale," he says.

I shake my head and snap my head to the side to Effie when she says, "What did—did your friend have to say, Katniss?"

I gulp. "What does Haymitch's letter say?"

The paper looks so frail in her trembling white hands. "It says they will be here by the end of the month."

That only confirms my note. I sit back in my chair and cover my face with my hands.

The letter is from Mr. Undersee. He has requested of Haymitch that he please take in his daughter and wife. His wife, Mrs. Undersee, is frail, sickly. Prone to headaches and days in bed. Bad health. Effie goes on, saying that the letter says that Mrs. Undersee has gotten worse and that Mr. Undersee has seen the true cruelty of his alliance. He had seen a gassing chamber.

"There are going to be ex-Nazis in the house?" Johanna says. She curses, making Effie gasp and run to Posy and cover her ears. Johanna points to Peeta and says, "How are you going to hide him?"

Hiding Peeta. Suddenly my heart escalates and my head is pounding with the news. We can't have the Undersees in a house with Peeta. He is a Jew. They're ex-Nazis. Still sympathetic to the Germans. They'll call us in and we'll all be in trouble.

Peeta licks his lips and says, "That's going to be a problem, isn't it?" He turns his head to Effie. "They'll be here by the end of the month."

Effie wordlessly nods.

"That should give me enough time to recover and move out, then," he says.

No. I shake my head, stand up, say loudly, firmly, "NO." Peeta is not going to leave. Not after all the time he's been with us. Not when we've grown so used to having him around.

Effie sighs irritably. "Then what are we going to do about him?"

"Why are the Undersees even coming here? Why here? Why Haymitch's manor?" I say, stalling, questioning, while my mind reels. We can't send him out into the country. What is he going to do? Anyone else would send him to the coppers. And I won't let that happen.

"THAT is _none _ of your business, Katniss." Never has Effie looked so angry at me. But I do not care.

"We're not turning him out," I say.

"Then what do you suggest we do, Katniss? They're sure to discover him," Effie says. Her voice holds a note of sadness now, as if she doesn't want the polite, gentle Peeta out of the house anymore than I do. For once, though, Effie is more sensible than I am.

I take a deep breath and sink down onto the chair. "Give me time to think."

Effie sighs again and says, "Well, you have either to the end of the month or until Haymitch decides something on his own. Whichever comes first." She looks sad, almost heartbroken, as she puts the letter down and makes her high heels make sharp noises against the wooden floors to the front porch.

The door closes and I hide my face in my hands. Not in despair. I'm thinking.

"What's the plan, princess?" Johanna says, taking a seat next to Peeta on the rough couch. The radio mixes with the sounds of her smacking against penny gum, something she rations along with her cigarettes as if they are more precious to her than money.

The attic. That's all I can think of. This manor has far more guest rooms than it needs, but there's no doubt that Madge will somehow find Peeta. She wouldn't go exploring the attic, though, especially in the summer, when the weather is sweltering and the attic is a death chamber. Poor Peeta will have to stay there for who knows how long. So maybe it's not the best plan. I growl under my breath. Sweat drips off my nose. I didn't realize I am this nervous.

"Wanna know why the Undersees are coming to this house?" I look up. Johanna has captured my attention. She stares at me, and I realize the house is empty except for the three of us. Annie has left with a letter from Finnick to the back porch while the children take care of the geese and Lady in the farmyard. She must trust Peeta, or she doesn't care if he knows or not. Either way, he looks interested, curious, as to what the relationship is.

I exhale. "Why?"

Johanna is curt and short in her answer, leaving no room for me to ask her questions. "He was engaged to Mrs. Undersee's sister. She died." Then she stands up and leaves the room, slamming the door as Effie has.

Peeta and I stare at the door.

"Oh" is all I can say.

"That'd explain a lot of things, actually," Peeta says.

I turn to him. Raise an eyebrow. "How so?"

Peeta makes an effort to sit up a bit. He can barely move his leg, despite how much lighter it has become. He waves his hand and says, "I've noticed the ripped up paintings. Not exactly Haymitch's style, are they? She, Mrs. Undersee's sister, must have bought them and put them up. When they were engaged, they were going to get married and live here. But with her death, he must have _despised _them." Peeta shakes his head. "But he can't get rid of them."

Because they remind him of his dead engaged. I have a sudden image of my mother never getting rid of a thick jacket my father used to own. She clung to it through those long nights of her stupor, as if she were a wee child and that was her safety blanket. As if she was fading away and that was the one thing that kept her tied to reality. Because despite the pain and loss the little memento had, it held more love than pain in it.

"They must have been beautiful paintings." I'm startled by Peeta's voice.

"What?" I say.

"The paintings. They must have been beautiful when they were whole," Peeta says. He sighs. "I haven't seen good works of art since the art museum in my town was burned to the ground."

"Were you a painter? Before the war?" I ask.

He nods. Something of sadness appears in his eyes, and I instantly know that he was a good painter. A painter of colors, life, and he was passionate about it, too. Is.

"Do you miss it?" I ask.

"Terribly."

I stand up and leave the room. Upstairs in the attic I rummage through a box and pull up a set of jars of old oil paints. They need to be shaken to be mixed together. I shake each one individually and grab a piece of old canvas that's dusty and disgusting and blow the dust off it. An old paintbrush that looks like a broken broom is grabbed. All these are added to the box as I stomp my way downstairs.

Peeta looks up in amazement as I drop the box next to him. "What's this?" he says, sitting up.

I want him to paint. I want him to do something pleasurable for himself when he cannot do much more.

But I end up saying, "Paint me something," and my cheeks burn as I leave the room.

I walk past Johanna and Haymitch and Effie and spend the next hour taking care of the animals. I can do this. I can lug buckets and arrange straw and clean out litter and sweep up goose feathers that blow in the wind. But I cannot think of a reliable-enough plan to keep Peeta safe. Safe from the eyes of Madge and her mother.

When I come back, Peeta has a painting. He's bent over it, determined, his brow pulled over his forehead as his brush moves back and forth. Open paints cover the coffee table. His hands are splattered. His manner is fast, quick, deliberate.

I manage to keep my eyes off the painting on the way to the kitchen. I do not want to seem interested. But I look over his shoulder when I can. I feel my cheeks warm when I see a tan face, a long sleek brown braid. A blue dress. Angry grey eyes. It's a mirror staring back at me.

I turn away in disgust. No. Not in disgust. In confusion. Why has he chosen to paint a picture of me? Maybe because I am the one who brought him the paints. Does he think I want a portrait of myself?

So I busy myself in the kitchen, throwing that ungrateful cat scraps as I clean a piece of squirrel for dinner. When Peeta finally sits back from his hard work, he turns to me with a gentle smile and says, "Katniss."

"Yes." My word is not a question.

"Come see my painting."

Because I am curious, and he is inviting me, I walk to the sofa and look over his shoulder.

He holds up the picture and I take it. The rough paint, old and texture-y with time, looks handled well. My dress is painted like my own shoulders are holding it up. I am not smiling. I have a long nose, dark skin, my braid fraying into bits of hair at the end. My eyebrows are strong and bold.

I frown.

"Don't you like it?" Peeta asks.

I hand it back to him. His fingers skim mine.

"Why did you paint me? Why, specifically, me?" I ask.

He is unfazed by my direct, annoyed tone. "Because you're the most beautiful thing I can think of."

I turn on my heel, sure the blush I have on my cheeks is bold and easy to see as I take to the kitchen and turn the radio to the highest volume so the lonesome tunes of Delly Cartwright, a girl from London who made the radio, fills the air and blocks out Peeta's voice.

It is not as if I am not pleased by the portrait. It was done with a deft hand. I am not smiling. It looks like me. But to think that I appear to Peeta as the most beautiful thing he can think of, after seventeen years of life, scares me.

But, I suppose, after seeing carnage and being in a work camp, I am beautiful to him.

* * *

Madge and her mother come at the end of the month. Peeta is taken upstairs to the attic. A bed is made for him up there: a pitcher of water and a nightstand, a dresser are arranged. Annie has taken to dismantling Haymitch's old clothes that he never wears from the attic and sews them into new clothes for Peeta. Prim helps her with this, and thinks it as a game to make the most of each piece of fabric. Peeta is beyond grateful, and he now has a dresser full of clothes.

As I help move him up, I look around the attic and sigh.

"Don't worry. I'll be fine here." He smiles at me, a beautiful grin, and I look away. After all he has been through, this is more than he could have ever hoped for. And yet I still feel it as inadequate.

I nod blankly and walk down the stairs. Prim passes me with fresh sheets. She will help Peeta make his bed. He can walk around now, his wooden leg thumping against the floorboard every time he takes a step. But he still needs help.

I'm glad Prim will help him and not myself. Things have been strange since that day. On my part. Peeta seems perfectly fine, talking to me as he normally would. But I avoid eye contact with him, because I do not know what to say to him.

But the portrait hangs in the china cupboard in the living room. Even Johanna has stopped to admire it.

"You actually look not annoyed, Katniss," she said.

I threw her a look. She grinned and pointed at my face. "There, though, huh, not so happy."

Now I can't figure out what to be like around Peeta. So I barely say anything, let the little children capture his attention instead.

We received a telegram from the Undersees this morning. And Haymitch has surprised us all. He has hooked up the wagon and gone to fetch Madge and Mrs. Undersee. Annie has been on a slow trip around the house, cleaning as she can. She has gotten slow, more out of breath lately. So I help her with a dust rag. It keep my hands, myself occupied.

Effie smiles nervously and pats the children's cheeks and destroys her handkerchief as she watches by the window. Suddenly she shrieks, startling me, when she says, "They're here! They're driving up!" She turns to the four children, Prim having just come down the stairs, all dressed neatly and cleaned up, and she lines them up and says, "Now, be nice! Oh, goodness, go show them in, Katniss!"

I gulp but obey. Time to face the music. I'm sure that my face does not convey that there is a Jew in the house. I hope not. I hope not.

The wagon stops right by the front steps. I instantly recognize Madge. Long blonde hair, a hat and heavy coat. Her lips and cheeks are the same shade of pink. She is older, but she does not smile. She never smiled.

She nods to me, instantly recognizing me. Despite the time spent apart, all that has happened is that we've gotten older. And there is a war going on. That's all.

I could say that we're the same two girls who ate lunch together at primary school. But that'd be a lie.

Haymitch calls for me, his voice demanding, to take the reins. I walk down the steps and grab the tough ropes. Haymitch gets out and turns to help Mrs. Undersee. It is immediately obvious that Mrs. Undersee can barely move on her own accord. Her face is frail. Her hand tightens against her cheek, and Madge hovers over her as Haymitch takes her inside, carrying her. Her legs must be too weak to walk.

I lead the horses around the house and take care of them. I do not want to see the Undersees for as long as possible. I can already hear Effie squealing over Madge, and how ladylike she is compared to me (though she wouldn't dare admit that. Effie has such manners) and how Mrs. Undersee looks so nice (Effie lies through her teeth).

Besides Gale, Madge is the only person I can call my true friend from any time in my life. She's been a quiet presence, one that is reassuring rather than loud. And there's nothing more that I want to tell her than Peeta. But I can't. I am not foolish. Telling Madge about Peeta is signing his death warrant.

Haymitch and I talked long into the night last night. The children were in bed, Effie was taking her sweet time in the bathroom, and the rain was falling lightly. Haymitch had not drunk any alcohol all week, making him surprisingly sober. I had expected him to get drunk senseless. But maybe he feels as if he has a reputation that he has to uphold before Mrs. Undersee. I wonder if he had taken up drinking after her sister had died.

We've decided to ease Peeta onto Madge. Mrs. Undersee won't be a problem. Her condition now shows me that she is bedridden. It is a guarantee that she will not going searching around the house to discover a Jew hiding in the attic.

So one day Madge will get to meet Peeta. When she is trusted and we feel the time is ready.

I come back through the back door. Effie immediately pounces on me, grabbing my hand and dragging me to Madge. She lets go and says, "Katniss, can you please show Madge to her room."

Madge throws me a look.

I nod and say to Effie, "Of course." I take Madge's bag and head up the stairs, my feet thumping.

We don't talk as we go up the stairs. Madge is silent behind me as we take to one landing and then turn and go up to the hall.

"Katniss?" Her voice brings back memories. Even though she never said much, I can recognize that voice anywhere. "Who painted that portrait of you downstairs?"

I take a deep breath. Then I turn to her so fast evens she seems startled. She quickly says, "I was admiring it downstairs. It looks just like you."

I say, speaking stupidly the first thing that comes to mind, "A boy."

Madge raises her eyebrows. "A boy?" Apparently it is so hard to think that a boy has painted me.

"Yes," I say curtly.

This earns me a smile. "A recurring boy?"

"Shhh," I say.

"Katniss," she says. She does not sound girly. She sounds curious, polite. Inquiring like a good guest.

"Shh," I say again.

"Oh."

Oh? What does that mean? My heart pounds until Madge turns to see Haymitch stepping out of a room. He throws us a gruff but sober look as he passes us and walks downstairs.

Oh.

"Mother likes silence," Madge says quietly.

Madge says nothing more as I take her to her room. It's right next to mine, similarly decorated. A bed and dresser and rug. Madge silently puts a bag down on the bed and sits down. I take a seat after putting down her case and she looks at me.

"Katniss," she says. "Do you hate me?"

I look at her strangely. "No."

"Because my father used to be a Nazi. And my mother. Therefore, me as well?"

"You were never a Nazi, were you, Madge?"

She shakes her head and looks at her hands. "No. I only went to events with Mother and Father or else the officers would inquire after me." She sighs and looks up. "But we're not Nazis anymore. Father's been trying to get out of the country for many weeks. He managed to pay off a few men to get Mother and I out of the country. He lied about where we are to the Nazis. He plans to follow us when he can." The smile she gives me is a grim one.

"Until then," she says. "We're going to stay here. It shouldn't be too bad." She sighs. "I haven't written you, Katniss, and you neither to me. So I don't know what has been happening in your life. Gale signed up for the army, didn't he?"

I nod.

"And you were sent here to be saved from the bombs?"

I nod.

Her blonde hair moves in the slight breeze from the window.

"Do you like it here?"

I nod.

"Still not much for words?"

I nod.

Madge laughs. "I see." Her smile disappears. "Even if you don't hate me, I can tell when someone doesn't trust me, Katniss."

I look away. Of course I don't trust her. But she is my friend. So I don't say anything because I'm one of those people who say whatever is on their minds. And I don't want to make our fragile friendship break apart.

* * *

Things are quickly established here. It's evident that Mrs. Undersee, while a fragile, gentle soul, needs perfect rest and silence around her at all times. The times I reprimand the children for speaking too loudly are many. Effie also joins me in the scolding. I do not want them to have to stay so quiet that a mere squeak rising from the floorboards sends people's heads turning, but I'd rather not have Effie on me to quiet them down.

I've always been a quiet person. I'm their example to follow. So I barely speak at all now. Mostly because I am busy. Busy, busy, busy.

I still do not know what has happened to Annie. Her hair is stringier, her eyes more sunken in. Her smiles look painful. I can catch her looking off to the side into space at any time of day.

Effie, the all-knowing housekeeper, begs her to go see a physician. The only one we have is old Dr. Aurelius. But Annie smiles and shakes her head. We take this in stride as the next month passes slowly by.

Madge does not stray far from the manor. Except when she goes on long walks across the country. The first time, she left without telling anyone. This sent the entire house into a tizzy, everyone running about, children's voices echoing over the hill as they called for her. Even Haymitch and of course, Peeta, were concerned. That boy, even upon never meeting Madge, was concerned.

She returned soaking wet from a rain storm, and upon interrogation from Effie, wanted to see the country.

So I take her into the woods. I don't want her around the house or around town as much as I can. Stay in the house, she may accidentally (how accidental can she be?) find Peeta. But go into town and people may know her father, recognize her blonde hair for the true German heritage she has. And the last thing Madge needs is to be taken by the villagers to the coppers.

So we go hunting. She does not hunt, seeing as I only have one set of bow and arrows, so she picks strawberries along a ridge. They're fading away, but somehow she always manages to find big, bountiful ones. It's strange to think they appeared out of thin air just for Madge to pick.

She picks at them on the way home, but I don't yell. No point in begrudging her some summer berries.

I'm seventeen now. Peeta is seventeen. Prim is thirteen. Our birthdays are all in May, and May has slipped away and now June is almost over.

The Victory garden is doing well. Tender sprouts emerge to the surface, delighting in the little sunshine that peeks through the grey clouds. Purple and pink veined greens, tops to carrots. Cabbages peek through, creating orderly little lines. The potato plants give us a tiny peek about what is happening beneath the black earth. Squash with their yellow flowers swirl out of the ground. Courgettes grow out. Legumes peek through. Effie squeals in delight at the sight. She only thinks it's beautiful because she hasn't sweated in the heat, gotten dirt underneath her long fingernails, or dragged a hoe across the rows.

The geese give us eggs. I spent a terrible afternoon with Haymitch and Johanna constructing a house for the geese to stay in after the horses stomped a dozen eggs apart under their hooves in the barn. So the geese have their own house now.

Johanna is helpful, despite her sarcastic manner and bad language that makes Effie squeal like a nun. She takes home portions of the products she helps with when she walks Annie home back to Mags. She is always good company, despite the way she berates Madge. Madge simply stares at her with cold eyes when she does this.

Because it's strange to think that Madge and Johanna are in the same house, two completely different sides of a coin together at a dinner table while we all remain silent (even the radio, which tells us everything that Johanna can't) for the sake of Mrs. Undersee, whose headaches cause her to stay bedridden. She has not been downstairs since arriving, and her meals are brought to her by Annie, who takes each step painfully.

I'm the peacemaker between them. But still, I am silent. Not to mention that I am not much one for causing peace. I'm usually the one causing the trouble, the war.

"So, what did Germany look like when you left it?" Johanna says cheerfully one evening.

Madge stares at her from across the table.

Johanna eats her beans with enthusiasm that all at the table but the children lack. She swallows and waves her hand. "I mean the country. Was it summer-y like? Was it dark and covered with the grey smoke of bombs or anything? Or was it green with budding trees and gorgeous flowers that could have gone into a magazine?"

Madge puts down her fork and smiles at Annie, thanks her for the meal, and goes upstairs to see her mother.

"Oh, Johanna!" Effie scolds once Madge is gone from earshot.

"What? Can't I ask a simple question and get a simple answer?" Johanna wants to know. She shrugs. "Guess she didn't want to answer. Maybe THAT has to do with where her loyalties lie."

"Johanna," _I_ say warningly. "She isn't a Nazi anymore. She doesn't want you to torture her."

Johanna rolls her eyes and we continue our meal in silence.

After I clear my spot, I go to look for Madge.

She isn't upstairs. The door to Mrs. Undersee's room creaks as I close it, trying not to disturb her. I frown. My heart drops suddenly when I don't see her in my room. Maybe she snuck downstairs. She's been meaning to play the piano ever since she came to this house. She told me she used to play.

I never showed her where it was. Maybe she went searching for it.

Downstairs, it remains covered in a backroom. The dust on the sheet is undisturbed. I hear feet walking above my head.

All the children are outside. Effie talks to Johanna by the table. Haymitch drinks in his study, which is not above my head. Annie wipes dishes quietly in the kitchen.

I run faster than my legs can carry me and end up tripping on the staircase.

I see her walk up the stairs too quickly. I can't catch her. My voice is caught.

I hurry down the hall and tail her. But she has taken the last step into the grey, dark attic, with its shadows and old paintings and Peeta.

"Madge," I whisper.

I'm beside her in a second.

She gulps as Peeta stares back at her, horrified.

She backs away slowly, then looks at me. Her eyes are wide. I can practically see the Star of David stamped onto them.

She shakes her head and runs down the stairs.

"I'm sorry."

Which of us three said _that_?

***Laughs* This isn't even the worst part! **

**I'm much more evil than this.**

**Thanks for reading! **


	8. Messages of Foul Content

_**Soli Deo gloria **_

**DISCLAIMER: I do NOT own the Hunger Games. :) **

Madge hides away in her mother's room. I knock repeatedly on her door, but she doesn't answer. I call her name; no response.

So I have to do what I hate to do. Admit to failure. In this case, admit to Haymitch and Effie that Madge knows now. Our plan to spring Peeta slowly on her has failed, and now possibly her mother knows as well. While Mrs. Undersee cannot get out of bed to report us to the police, she can write. She can say she's writing letters to a relative or friend if she hands Effie a letter to give to Johanna to take to the post, but it could be a secret letter exposing us.

But then I realize she can't do that. The police come investigating, they'll find Mrs. Undersee and Madge. Ex-Nazis. And I know for a fact that they will think of them as 'Nazis,' even if they claim to be not so. They'll be taken away to trials before any more word can get out.

So that rules out that possibility. But I still have to tell Effie and Haymitch.

When I tell them, their reactions are somewhat muted compared to what I thought they would do. They sit at the kitchen table, hands wrapped around cups. Effie has a cup of weak tea (from reused tea that we've been using for the past month) and Haymitch's hands are around a bottle of white liquor. Effie merely gasps and looks instantly at Haymitch, almost like waiting for instructions on what should be done about this situation.

But he sits and after so long that I feel that he did not hear my words, he says, "So she knows. What are we supposed to do?"

He sits back and drains his bottle.

I throw him a disgusted look. He does not care. He is holding a house with three different kinds of people, London's children and Germany's people and Poland's Jew, and he has nothing to say.

But there is something else. We are all refugees in this manor. Nobody is going to get kicked out. So we will have to live together.

Finally, later that night, I go up and knock once more on Madge's mother's door. It is dark. Quiet. The children are asleep. Effie will be in bed soon. I have barefeet beneath my wrinkled nightgown. My knock echoes in the hall.

"Madge." My voice is not calling for her to call back. No. It is a word, her name, for her to come here. To talk. To not yell.

The door opens a crack. I see her blonde hair through the crack.

"He is not going to hurt you." Of course not. I fear Madge would hurt Peeta before Peeta, such a gentle soul that it takes everything, a world war, to rile him up, before he hurt her. "He can barely walk. We were going to tell you. Come out."

Madge opens the crack a bit more. She is frowning.

"When were you going to tell me about him?"

"When the time was right."

"When would that be?"

"I don't know."

Madge sighs and says, "I want to meet him."

I nod and she opens the door a bit more. I don't care if Peeta is asleep. This could be a chance at a peaceful meeting, and perhaps all the chaos and tension and hatred can be avoided before it even happens. Nip the flower in the bud. Stunt the growth before the weed chokes the entire plant.

I walk up first, calling his name as a whisper. Not startle him as I walk into his living space, which is sweltering. I feel the sweat covering my skin, like water from the shower running down, coating my entire body.

"Katniss," he says, looking up from his book. He has been painting in a book. There's a single light bulb hanging from the ceiling next to his bed, which is rumpled. He is dressed for bed, and he looks at me strangely, wondering why I'm here.

"Madge is here," I say.

"Oh," he says, the memory of this evening coming back to him. He bows his head to the book, ashamed. He looks up to meet Madge's eyes, which are not wide but subdued. Her arms hang behind her back, folded. She looks unfriendly. Professional.

"Your name is Peeta?" she asks politely.

He nods. "Yes, it is. And what's yours?" His tone is friendly.

"Madge." She nods her head and says suddenly, "You're a Jew."

"Yes. I am."

"You're running from the Nazis."

"I know."

"I'm not going to hurt you. I'm not going to turn you in," Madge says. She shakes her head. "I don't and may never understand what the point of exterminating all who do not look like the government's version of an acceptable person is."

He smiles. "So I'm to not be afraid of you."

"I never said that. I can be terribly frightening." She smiles a little.

"I will always be aware of that, Madge." Peeta looks more at ease, and so does Madge.

Madge is a better person than even I gave her for. She honestly does not care for the Nazi government and thinks this entire war is stupid. She talks about it sometimes when she assists me with the stacks of laundry we have to keep washing. All the clothes mount up, and it's a constant job. She also helps with taking care of the animals and cooking with Annie, who has to take breaks. When asked, she laughs and says it's a headache. But Johanna and I have exchanged too many suspicious looks to think that this is not something that needs to be taken care of.

Madge also accompanies me out of the house to the post. She wears a hat and always takes care to smudge her face with dirt, though that is excessive. She walks barefoot with me one day to the post and back, excited and disappointed. No new letters from Finnick, but one from her father. And two from the army.

When we arrive back at the house, these two last are dismantled and Effie turns pale and has to sit down and she looks like she is going to throw up. I snatch the letter from her and hastily scan it. It's one that sends my heart pounding, my thoughts dismantled.

The next one reveals the same news. But worse.

Finnick Odair and Gale Hawthorne have officially been declared missing.

Madge takes the letters once I've fallen into a kitchen chair, barely able to breathe, think, feel. Gale is _missing_. Finnick is _missing_. They've been lost from their squads. They're out there, dead or injured or barely breathing, in war country. With enemies or friends? I don't know. But they're gone. And what hope is there for their survival?

Posy and Vick and Rory are shocked when they hear this news. Rory tries to take it bravely, but I can see him when he turns away. Vick stares at me, not sure what to say, and Posy cries to sleep in my arms. I don't know how to comfort her other than to hold her very tightly. I have no words. No words to say, no words to think about my best friend being lost in a place where the British army does not know where he is. He could be prisoner, be tortured at this very moment, and I would be none the wiser.

The worst is Annie.

Johanna tells her. The letter was delivered to Haymitch's because that was Finnick's state of residence, so Johanna takes home the news to Annie, who had been taking a day of rest, finally listening to Effie's worrying.

But Annie doesn't come back after that, and the week spills away with the housework that mounts up. Effie schedules and works the finances while also chastising Haymitch into living, as she usually does. But she does this more with an urgency, but no pushiness as she usually has. She is soft on everyone now, letting everyone walk around like ghosts as Madge, Prim and I tend to the laundry, the shopping, cooking, cleaning, hunting, taking care of Peeta, who now walks the house because he doesn't have to hide anymore.

He often helps carry things for me now. He seems to know that Gale's AWOL letter has sent me into a inward meltdown. I don't say anything, but inwardly things crack. I don't understand. I barely hear when Effie talks to me now until she taps my hands with her fingernails. But Peeta follows me like a quiet shadow, talking to me in gentle tones. Being patient when I am not.

But finally time is in my hand. Madge and I pack up a basket and walk along the grey, damp morning, down the road towards Mags's house. I know she can cook. Take care of Annie with Johanna. But the basket is a sorry. Sorry for not having been able to come earlier.

The house is quiet when we approach. A shutter hangs off in disrepair. The front door is dirty and the porch unkempt. When I knock, I'm answered by Mags. She gives me a weak, gummy smile. I remember how Finnick was like a son to her. I try to find words to say sorry, but they're gone. But she takes the basket and waves us in and takes us to the room where Annie is.

It's a dark room, the curtains pulled, a fizzy radio in the corner. She wears a jacket that's thrown off halfheartedly. Her hands cover her ears, her hair is straggled. Her face is astonished, wondering, questioning, streaked with tears.

Behind us, Johanna raps her knuckles against the door, startling us.

"She's been like this for a week," Johanna says. "Since the news." She puts down a cup of honey and weak lemon water on the desk next to her. "She won't talk. All she whispered was, well, 'Finnick,' and, for some strange reason, your name, Katniss."

My heart thumps. My name? Why MY name?

"Why?"

Johanna scoffs. "I don't know. Maybe you can ask her." She takes a seat and looks at me expectantly.

I uncertainly take a seat in front of Annie. Madge quietly turns off the radio, plunging the room into a sudden silence that's taut as a wire.

I gulp, unsure of what to say. I don't know anymore about Finnick than anyone else in this room. No news about his return or anything. And I wish I knew, for the sake of Annie, and I wish I knew more about Gale, if he is safe or not, for my own sake. But I have nothing, making me feel completely useless and angry.

"Annie?" I finally whisper.

She looks up. Her eyes, usually green and dark, are broken, like green glass. A half-crazed look is in them.

"She's been strange all week. I think she's had a breakdown," Johanna says quietly.

"Annie?" I say. "What's wrong?"

Tell me because I have no idea.

She bows her head. Her hand slips down to her belly, which is extended out of her dress. She rubs the bump, and suddenly I have the urge to curse.

Johanna does, though. She has a wilder tongue than even I. "I am going to go find Finnick and murder him!" she says loudly.

Annie suddenly bursts into tears and shakes her head wildly, saying repeatedly, "No, no, no, no no no no no."

Madge throws Johanna a look and clasps Annie in a hug. I don't know if Madge feels for Annie, but I know she knows what to do. She knows how to act around sick people. She has sat up with her mother on long, hot nights, when the air flying through the window is too warm.

"Who knows? Why didn't you tell us beforehand?" I find myself saying.

"Shut up. You're overwhelming her," Johanna snaps.

"Yes, says the person who just threatened to murder the father of her child," I say irritably, entirely impatient with Johanna and her reasoning.

"Because . . . I am scared," Annie whispers.

Somehow, we all understand that. In a war, it's strange to think that life goes on. That Finnick and Annie shared something before he left.

_Finnick. _He left her when she was _pregnant_.

"Does Finnick know?" I ask simply.

Annie shakes her head tearfully. "I haven't told him. I didn't want him to worry about me." She sniffs and says, hugging her belly to herself, "You can't have the baby. None of you."

"No one's taking your baby, Annie," Johanna says. She sighs and cocks her head. "Does Mags even know?"

Annie nods.

"At least," Johanna says. She smacks herself in the forehead. "I should have seen, figured out." She shakes her head. We all should have noticed. I flashback to when Annie sat down, too tired to stand, how she'd drink tea after cup of tea. How she'd be tired but with a smile, a secret hidden only with her in that big manor. "You were good at hiding, Annie, you won," Johanna says wearily.

This earns her a smile.

* * *

This starts, of course, a series of events. In adding to our stress about Finnick and Gale, Madge and Prim and my duty to our farmwork is staying the same as Annie stays home with Mags to take care of her. The news of Finnick has already left Annie in a dwindling state of depression. Sometimes I can hear her screams from beyond the valley.

Johanna has a constant crease in her eyebrows. She had talked cheerfully to Madge and I about joining the Women's Land Army, an organization where women go to farms and tend the food and product to be rationed. Now the conversation, the subject, is gone. Johanna stays and works at the recruitment office, wearing her professional outfit for the army. Her short hair, bobbed, is always ruffled and spiky at the end of the day when she comes and plays poker with Haymitch before returning to Mags's.

She still treats Madge with sarcastic disdain. But that is Johanna. There is an intolerance for Nazi sympathizers in this country, with so many of the young men in the corps and British navy and the Air Force. Sometimes I wonder why she is affiliated with us, with our Jew and ex-Nazis under our leaking roof (Peeta is moved downstairs before this happens, making him relieved that Madge knows). But then I remember that she is Johanna, brash and cold and flirty and sharp. She fits in with our strange group.

But to add to all of that, I have decided to join Prim and Rory in their own personal little addition to the war effort. Upon noticing how Johanna works at the recruiting office and I am in charge of our Victory garden, which is doing well this summer, despite the constant rain, Rory has decided to collect scrap metal from the dumps of metal that he's found. They're mostly full of old parts of cars, appliances, and farm equipment. He has enlisted the help of Prim, who, having healed Lady and Peeta to the best of her abilities, agreed. It involves no killing, no harm. Just collecting scrap and taking it down to the war office for the effort.

I, in turn, feel on edge, my mind constantly suspicious. With a Jew and two ex-Nazis in the manor, I am worried about someone finding out and taking it out on Rory and Prim when they least expect it. Two thirteen-year-olds. And yet I still worry. So I accompany them, despite Rory's wrinkled nose, driving the wagon with Twill and Bonnie the horses that September.

We cover the country quite a bit every Saturday. There is no school for them to attend to, so they have free time during the week to go to the nearest houses. I trust them then. They stay in the general vicinity of the hill. I can see from the front porch all the houses they go to. An eagle's eye view on them.

One Saturday I take up the wagon and we leave at seven in the morning. I am used to waking up early in the morning. I hunt before I come back to find Prim yawning and Rory rubbing his eyes. Squirrels mount on the table and we leave in the wagon. I noticed there was a rickety old car in the meadow before the hill, where the woods are. I had found out that it was Haymitch's old car. He never goes to town now. It is in disrepair, broken down and ugly.

We go to this first and jump out of the wagon. Prim crouches by the old car and Rory says, "How much scrap metal you think is here, Katniss?"

I shake my head. "I don't know." Maybe a ton or two. Already, I can see that several pieces are missing from it. A hood. A trunk cover. The steering wheel. The brake pedal.

But that doesn't matter. Rory and Prim pounce on it like Buttercup on a piece of spare meaty fat. I hold up the crowbar I brought from the barn and it slams into the car. Nothing. I pull and pull. Nothing. I bring the crowbar back like a hatchet against wood. This gives me a nice piece of metal.

We spend several minutes at that site. We cannot carry several tons of car, and neither can the horses. But metal scraps pile in the wagon's bed. Prim sits in the bed and rearranges things so that we can fit more in. She has a gleam in her eye, as if she realizes that this is truly something that is satisfying not only the war effort, but herself.

Because work done with your own two hands is satisfying. Never have I been more pleased than when I have shoot a squirrel, or pulled a fish out of the creek with a homemade net that Finnick taught me to make. Prim finds satisfaction in healing, something that sends me off puking rather than smiling. But we're healthy here. No blood. Not like the battlefield. And I'm instantly brought back to the thought of war, and the wounds and injuries and diseases brought along by infections. And try not to gag.

All the metal is brought to the war office, which is then taken out and taken by a man with a large truck. I don't know where he takes the scraps of the car. But I am messy. Face covered in grime. Prim has a cut from a sharp piece of metal across her face.

We go home and wash. I find Prim telling Johanna excitedly in the kitchen of our escapade. Johanna raises her eyebrows. As Prim helps Madge cut up a piece of pig to add to the hash for lunch, Johanna leans next to my ear and says, "You realize they don't actually use this scrap metal, don't you?"

I stare at her and feel my face burn. "They don't? The rubber either?"

"They don't use it. It's for morale at the home front," Johanna says. Smoke curls from the cigarette held between two of her fingers. I feel like smacking it out of her hand.

"Gee, that's comforting," I say sarcastically.

"Exactly. Makes everyone feel like they're doing something big. Like Annie. Mags is teaching her how to knit. Soldiers are going to need blankets and scarfs and hats and mitts this winter," Johanna says. She blows at her cigarette.

"You really believe it's going to last through the winter?" I ask uncertainly.

Johanna looks at me like she can look through me. "Katniss, if you haven't noticed, we've had no progress. No major army deaths. No big defeats. No big wins. No one has surrendered. Haven't you heard the news? Things are consistent. No, we're going to be in this war for some time, whether we like it or not, Katniss. Isn't that a comforting thought?"

Johanna is such a cheerful, kind person.

* * *

I walk back with Johanna to check on Annie. She indeed is working on hats and anything that can keep her hands busy. Her mind is already preoccupied, though, and her eyes scatter away. Her hands are marked with her thoughtlessness with her needles.

It isn't yet sunset when I walk back to the manor. It's a yellow sunny evening, with pink. Pretty. Not everything is pretty. It's nice to see something that is.

I am immediately on alert when I see a car in the driveway. It's just driven up. An army man comes out. Two. No. Three. One is young. Bound to talk to me if he dares see me. So I sneak around the car. When I am free, I am instantly around the house and through the back door.

Peeta. Where is Peeta? Must hide Peeta. I would have known if this had been a planned visit. No. He can be anywhere, caught off-guard.

He is. He is in the kitchen, admiring the sunset through a window. He turns to me, saying my name with a smile. "Katniss—"

There's a knock on the front door. A man in a helmet with a white mustache looks impatiently through the wire mesh over the door.

I do not shove. I do not shout, call attention to him. I throw myself on Peeta and land on top of him.

He gasps, out of breath, for I have literally knocked it out of him, and I look around the counter. The man is being answered by Haymitch. Good. This counter hides the two of us. He can't see us. Please don't have seen us, please please please please.

"Katniss?" Peeta says beneath me.

"Stay down," I say firmly as I step off of him. Is it strange that I do not feel any heat in my cheeks, or any embarrassment? I am too determined to keep Peeta safe. Must keep Peeta safe. I am too hyped on adrenaline, anxious, as I peer over the counter to see Haymitch nodding and talking with the man, who is handing him something.

"Katniss, why'd you do that?" Peeta asks.

I turn back to him. I am not sure if he saw the man, and now he looks at me strangely, wondering why on earth I shoved him to the ground and told him to stay down.

"There's a man here. A British officer, at the front door," I say evenly.

"Oh," Peeta says.

I nod and peek my head over the counter. Quiet, as if waiting for prey during hunting.

The man finally nods and leaves. Haymitch nods and waves until he is sure the man is gone. Haymitch is not a man to wave.

He turns to us and says, "Get out from behind the counter."

Peeta and I get to our feet sheepishly.

"The subtlety you two display is real mature and excellently executed, you know," Haymitch says.

"What do the letters say?" I ask.

Haymitch shakes his head and tosses them on the counter. Not letters. Telegrams.

And my heart drops.

"Finnick's dead. Gale Hawthorne's coming home on a medical discharge."

And that's when the world stops.

**Now, why do I make Madge so quick to accept Peeta? Because I am trying to retain her character from the book. Her father was a bit Capitol, a bit not. Same here. A bit Nazi, a bit not. She never agreed with the Capitol, and so I'm making her the same here with the Nazis.**

**Also, how is the cliffie? XD**


	9. Gale Has ARRIVEDDDDDDDDDD

_**Soli Deo gloria**_

**DISCLAIMER: I do NOT own The Hunger Games. I know. I killed Finnick. What a shocker. How horrible! XD  
**

I stare at Haymitch. I think I may see tears in his eyes, but he doesn't acknowledge them as he says, "Finnick was killed in action by France. His body was found, turning him no longer MIA but KIA. Gale was just found and has an injury with his arm and head. Non-life-threatening."

My heart pounds. I cannot think. Finnick, sweet, funny, charming, handsome, annoying Finnick, is dead. It's hard to think, that all those days of pitching hay and driving the wagon with him and eating with him at the dinner table and listening to him joke with the children: they're gone. All gone. Never to be recreated because Finnick Odair is simply gone.

And Annie.

Poor Annie.

No doubt some word must reach her, and I must go to her to comfort her. She was the one who waited until I showed up before she revealed she was pregnant. Is. That child. He will have no father. Like I and Prim. Like Gale and Rory and Vick and Posy. This war is losing us our fathers.

And I hate it.

Effie lets out a scream and has to sit down upon hearing the news. Prim immediately starts to cry. All the children are dumbstruck. Too much information that is so simple yet so complicated is strange to hear, to absorb. Their brother, injured, but alive. Well. Coming home. And Finnick. Shot dead by some bastard enemies. I am furious because of this, and angry, and I walk the country for the rest of the night, ignoring the look Effie gives me about being out in the dark during wartime. But her eyes are too full of tears to be angry.

I come back at around four and Peeta is sleeping on the couch. I sneak in quietly, as in hunting, and prepare to make some tea to soothe my nerves, which are frayed beyond saving.

I hear Peeta stir. He sits up and comes over to take over the tea. He gets out mugs and honey and I sit down, instinctively knowing that he will do everything, take care of everything.

He comes and sits next to me. My mug steams and I take a sip. Honey sweetens it. I sigh.

Peeta doesn't say anything. He takes a sip of his tea. I notice he doesn't have a spoon.

"Don't you sweeten your tea?" I ask.

He shakes his head. "I don't. I like to taste the tea."

I nod and my hands wrap around the tea. He even added some warm goat's milk.

"Thank you," he says suddenly.

"What?" I say, surprised. "What for?"

"When the officer came today. You saved me from getting sighted and taken away. I didn't say thank you yet, so thank you," Peeta says. He has very soulful blue eyes. They shine in the candlelight.

I did it because I couldn't lose Peeta. I didn't know where Finnick or Gale was. I thought they were gone, and Peeta was the only one left. The only one I can protect, save and keep from harm. Now I've lost Finnick.

Gale is coming. No doubt he will see his mother, but he will also want to see his three siblings. Suddenly the idea of having Gale, my childhood friend, coming here where my life has changed into something that it wasn't when he left, hits me. I am protecting a Jew. Protecting two ex-Nazis. I am different than the Catnip he left.

I nod and Peeta says, "I'm sorry. About Finnick."

I nod again and say, "I'll have to tell Annie." I realize that Peeta doesn't understand what I mean by that. "He and Annie were together."

"OH," Peeta says knowingly. His head bumps in a gesture. "So he's the father, then."

"Yeah. Yeah, he is." I gulp. "Was."

"Does she know?" Peeta asks. "About his death?"

"Probably." I hope so. Or else the news will be devastating when I'm the one delivering it.

"But she knows that she will have help, doesn't she?" Peeta asks. "I mean, there's you and Haymitch and Effie and Johanna and Mags and Madge. And me, though what little I do might not do much."

Then I get an idea. "Peeta, there is something you can do. . ."

* * *

Peeta has the painting done by the time Madge and I are ready to head to Mags's house. Haymitch carries it as Effie carries the basket. They talk with Mags as Madge and I talk to Johanna, who is strangely shaken up. Johanna is never disturbed, always stoically annoyed and cheerfully angry. But she is a someone who does ugly sobbing. Her eyes are puffy and she tries to hid the hiccups when they creep up on her.

She leads us to Annie's bedroom. It's dark and Annie is a wrinkled corpse in the white sheets. She wears a nightgown, her dark hair coated with sweat and her face streaked with tears. Her belly sticks out like an elephant in the room. It has grown since we've seen her last, and her hand absentmindedly rubs circles on it.

"Mags put her on bedrest when she heard the news," Johanna says in explanation. "We've had a doctor in here. Something's wrong with her. Not physically. She's relatively healthy, despite everything. But she's mentally deaf. Stupid. Numb." Johanna's crossed arms on her chest rise and fall as she says, "She's fallen into a depression. Sometimes she just laughs and other times she screams."

I stare dumbly at the broken figure in the bed.

"Having her and that baby screaming at night when it comes is going to be hell. Maybe I _will_ join the Women's Land Army. Or go work in a factory. Or jump off a bridge," Johanna says. This last remark doesn't even result in a reaction from Annie.

"She's been like this for a week?" Madge asks.

"Yeah," Johanna says, looking at something beyond me. I notice by the bed now that there is a badge, several ribbons. Honors for Finnick. Papers about a funeral. Mags has already told us and Johanna has already translated that they're buying a coffin and burying it. For closure.

"Does the doctor have a good prognosis?" Madge asks cautiously.

Johanna shakes her head. "He says she's in a pretty bad state of mind. He doesn't know if she's gonna come out of it." She frowns and kicks the bed. "Bastard doctor should be able to do something."

But sometimes there are some mental things that no doctor can help with. I remember doctors coming to see my mother after my father passed. She, too, upon hearing the news of her husband, broke down, shut down. Barely returned to us. But she's here. Almost. In London. Not totally together yet, still broken in fragments that have little hope of piecing back together to fit back her puzzle into one, whole piece.

And I hope Annie will not turn out the same.

I clear my throat and bring out the canvas I've had by my side. I set it by the bed, gently adjusting it, and step back. Peeta had spent several hours on it, going on through the rest of the night. I remember sitting on the couch and watching him paint until the softness of his movements had lulled me to sleep. I woke up to him with a furrowed brow, his painting almost done. And now it stands in the little glory of the dusty lights Johanna has turned on.

It's of Finnick. He's tall, a muscular, lean stature, with his arms around Annie. She is wearing a dark green dress, her hair gently floating in the air. Finnick's eyes are as green as I remember them. His hair is bronze, his eyes only on Annie as she looks out over the blue landscape, one hand over her belly.

And then I feel a low, spreading ache. Finnick never _knew_. Maybe that is why Annie called for me. To somehow tell him. But I don't know how. He is dead. There is no way for me to tell him myself. I feel ashamed, suddenly, as I step back.

Johanna sniffs at seeing the picture. "Did Peeta paint that?" she asks.

Madge nods.

Annie turns to it, almost as if it is something that called her, and she stares at it until we leave.

* * *

October rolls by and most of the vegetables from the Victory garden are being hurriedly picked and pickled and canned as the rains start coming down, hard. A hard frost hits us. The morning of, Jack Frost has decorated our windows with a coating of ice. That is the moment I realize that we will have to hurry.

All the children are forced into coats and mitts and hats and throw outdoors. My boots are still too big as I slip them on. Madge slips down from her post at her mother's side, which she rarely leaves. She too grabs a coat and shoves it on.

Even Peeta is to help. He can barely bend without difficulty, due to his leg, but he is ready to sit down and pick squash from the garden as the winds blow, making the entire morning dark and gray, and foreboding. Tree leaves fly everywhere, red and orange and bronze and auburn. The kids sometimes stop to catch them. They're enchanted. There are no fall leaves in London. So this is a strange, delightful little treat indeed.

Suddenly Peeta speaks up. "We used to have a garden in Poland. We'd grow many things. Potatoes were my favorite, though."

I look up from my spot around the cabbages. Some are rotting at the cores; others have spots and leaves that fall off. But they're good for pickling. I can practically see the posters all over the village that I see when I go to the telegram office ordering us to cook everything. Waste not and want not. That is the motto for the war.

"Did you help in the garden then?" I ask.

Peeta nodded. "My mother, she had me and my brothers out early in the morning while the bread was rising in the bakery to tend before we got customers. After . . . after the bakery was shut down, we spent a lot more time in the garden."

I nod, and he picks a large squash. The wind passes through his hair, making it dance in the breeze. It's a fine shade of yellow, like gold. Like the golden paint he has on the coffee table. "Did you have a garden, Katniss?"

I shake my head. "Our yard was small. No room for a Victory garden there."

He nods, takes that as an answer.

We pick until our hands are soaked and covered in dirt, until mud covers our boots and Effie is telling us to wipe our feet as she waits by the door with a mop and bucket. The baskets and buckets and everything that can be used as a container line the back porch as the children are given baths upstairs. The rain starts to truly fall as Madge and I clean up, put on new clothes. And then comes the newest part. Canning.

I can can some. Mostly tomatoes and peaches. But Madge has never had to lift a finger to can anything. She is hardworking, but out of place in the kitchen. And even Effie is as she comes down and looks regretfully at her job of helping sterilize jars. Even she always had Annie to rely on.

Suddenly Peeta is in the kitchen, looking over the recipe book and giving out jobs. This makes Effie and Madge relieved to have someone know what they're doing. It makes me surprised. Peeta has been nothing but quiet and gentle, but now he commands the kitchen with a firm voice, knowing hands. He knows exactly what he's doing as he carefully adds the rationed sugar to the preserves, using less than he ever has but adjusting the recipe to fit it. He looks over my shoulder as I cut cucumbers, old ones that have been hidden under the plant's limbs and have grown to the size of cricket bats, and approves of my knife cuts with a smile.

Somehow, I feel good at meeting his standard.

The pickling goes well. Though the kitchen now reeks to high heaven of vinegar. It's a cleansing smell that keeps the children out of the kitchen, which is good. I have no time to keep them away from the knives and hot fire. The radio plays in the background as steam fills the kitchen. Prim props the back door open to allow the cold air to counteract the steam filling the room. But this sends her outside to shoo the farm animals from waltzing into the kitchen.

By the time late night comes, all the workers are pink. I am covered in sweat and have a burn on my hand, a cut over my eye. Peeta addresses this at the sink as he wipes some alcohol on it after gently dabbing it with a wet, warm cloth. His eyes are focused solely on my forehead. He can't see that I can see the curve of his nose and the way he subconsciously licks his lips. I wonder why he is so good at caring for other people's cuts and aches and pains when Johanna comes speeding into the house.

The front door slams, her voice calling through the house, and her "Peeta, stop looking like you're about to kiss Katniss" sends the two of us turning to her. I feel my cheeks burn. Peeta takes a step back. Effie quickly stands up, revealing her apron to be covered with a variety of dark red and yellow spots. "What is it, Johanna? Why are you here?"

This must be big if Johanna forgoes the phone. Her time coming to the manor has been cut in half. Her time focuses on Annie now. But still, on Saturdays, the smell of cigarettes and bitter brandy travel through the rooms of the manor, filling every corner and crevice.

Her hand flies up. A piece of paper is in it. She smiles. "A telegram. Your friend Gale's going to be on tomorrow's morning train, 10:30. He's handsome, didn't you say, Katniss?" Johanna is horrible. But I snatch the paper from her hand and treasure it just the same.

* * *

We're going to meet up with Gale. All except Madge and Peeta. Gale already knows Madge. He also knows of her being a Nazi, and so on the way home from the train, I will try my best to explain her ex-Nazi status and her situation with her mother at the manor.

It's going to be harder with Peeta. He doesn't know Peeta.

So that morning, while Effie is making sure that each child is dressed perfectly, not a hair out of a place, their clothing immaculate, I head up with Peeta to his room, where Gale will be kept from at all costs. Peeta has a key that he plays with in his hand, tossing it about, coating it in his sweat. He's scared. Anxious. But also determined, setting his jaw as he uses it to open his door; he steps in.

He keeps his room perfectly clean. Nothing out of place. Not even the paint supplies he keeps on top of his dresser. I run my hand along the tops, remember the colors he stroked across the canvas to form my face. _My _face. The most beautiful face he had ever seen.

"Annie liked the painting," I say suddenly.

I turn to see his startled face. Then he understands and nods. "Good. I was hoping she would. Considering the state she is in, I was hoping that it wouldn't do anything to make anything worse . . ."

"No." I take a seat next to him. His mattress creaks underneath my weight. Our legs are close together. Not too far apart. I back away an inch. "She really likes it. Johanna says that she hasn't stopped looking at it. She falls asleep looking at it."

Peeta looks amazed. "Oh, that's good."

"Thank you for making that, Peeta," I say.

"It was your idea," he says.

"But you painted it. _You. _You have a talent with a paint no one else has," I say.

"One of my few talents. At least you can hunt, and take care of the farm, and so more, _so much_, Katniss," Peeta says. I can tell he's leaning a little closer. I back away a little more. But this seems to make him inch just closer, just a little. His voice, his tone, is quiet, more soothing, gentle, when he says, "You're so much, Katniss."

I don't say anything. I don't know what to say. So he kisses me; I don't know what to think or say. His lips are firm, and suddenly I feel something stirring within me that makes my hand wrap around his neck, my thumb pressing into his skin. I can feel a muscle pulsing under it, imitating my own heartbeat, which is pounding through me, making me feel nothing but a buzz, him against me, and then I pull back and say, "The train's waiting." My hand slips from his neck and presses against his shoulder as I stand up and hurry out of the room, leaving him alone with the door moving gently in my breeze.

"Katniss, come along. We're going to be late," Effie says from the front seat. She waves her handkerchief nervously as Haymitch scoffs. "Effie. Princess. Calm down. We're not going to be late. If anyone is, it's going to be that damn train."

"Oh, but it's a soldier coming to see us! Oh, Haymitch, we cannot be bad hosts!" Effie chastises as I quickly take my seat, falling into my spot with a jolt as I suddenly realize what I did.

"Are you okay, Katniss? You're flushed," Prim says.

I nod and ignore the chatting from the children as the wagon bumps along down the hill and they bounce with excitement at going to see their older brother after so long. I look at my hands, think about how warm Peeta felt, and how genuine I made that. I do not _love _him. I like him well enough. He is kind and good and everything that anyone can strive for a lifetime to be and not be. I want to protect him. I want him safe.

I do not love him.

But I like him well enough.

* * *

I recognize him instantly. Dark hair, identical to mine. Sharp grey eyes, identical to mine. An easy smile. That is all his own. But the warm, easy smile has to be won by those around him. He does not smile much. But he smiles with me.

I hug him first; I'm the first one to him. He smells like dirt and air and smoke and he wraps one arm around me, saying, "Careful, Catnip. Injured my arm, remember?"

I back away to see the injury, my fear of injuries thrown away as I take in his bandaged arm. No blood visible. No pus. Just white. And then I look up past his eyes and see the bandage around his head.

My hand flies to the bandage as the children squeal around his legs and Effie chokes with tears behind her handkerchief at such a heartwarming sight. Haymitch asks, "What happened to your head, boy?"

Gale looks away from me and his smile slips away. He firmly shakes Haymitch's hand, saying, "Got a little too close to a bullet, sir."

"Haymitch," Haymitch says. He looks annoyed because he was called 'sir'.

"Haymitch. All right." Gale drops his hand. "Thank you for taking in my brothers and sister and Katniss and Prim." I don't know if Gale himself is grateful, as much as he knows that Haymitch is doing his duty for the war effort and respects that.

Haymitch grunts and nods and Effie comes bobbing up, reaching out her hand, giggling when Gale shakes it, and I'm instantly hit with the thought of how old Effie is. She looks young, with her done-up hair and her squeaky voice. Does she find Gale handsome? Of course she does. But does she find him . . . attractive?

And suddenly I'm relieved when I'm standing by my best friend, walking with him to the wagon with his bags in my hands.

"You don't have to carry those," he says.

"Gale. I'm not going to make you carry these," I say.

"Can't Haymitch do it?" he asks, cocking his head so he can see me. He's so much taller than me. Serious. Older by two years.

"Haymitch hasn't been happy to be of help," I say as answer. But he has been a help. He helped with lopping off Peeta's leg when I couldn't, too disgusted and selfish to do it. He made sure the officer was answered at the door. He has been listening to the war on the radio, thinking a lot more than he lets off. He is the one who pays Annie, even though she is no longer working. The money still goes to Mags's. He plays card games with the children, teaching them new curse words in the process. But he is there as solidity. As long as we have Haymitch, we have a plan. We will have help, however reluctant and sour it is.

We are loaded into the wagon and the sun actually shines on our way back to the manor. It momentarily makes me forget Gale and remember how we have to save Peeta. Keep him from sight once more. Always hiding him. Always. And then Gale pulls me in.

"Have you ever heard back from Madge Undersee?" He sounds so bitter. He used to know Madge, know her well. He got on along with her well enough. He begrudged her expensive clothes and piano lessons, and his opinion of her lessened when he heard of her father being a prominent Nazi.

Now is my chance to save her back for him.

"Yes. She's doing well."

"Her father still a Nazi?"

Of course, he says this jokingly, not looking for the response I give him.

"No. She and her mother are actually back at the manor," I say, and his mouth falls agape and I throw him such a look that even Gale bites his tongue and holds back angry words against the system of the Nazis, the very people he fought, the very people and government he _risked his life to kill _and hear from me in relatively calm words the situation he is to find back at the house.

He is quiet once I am done. I search his face, looking for any sign of aggression, anger. Understandable anger, considering what he had been through in the past few months. But he just sets his mouth in a sour line and doesn't say a word as we pull up the manor and Haymitch grudgingly helps Effie down. I knew she knows I told Gale, so I can tell the smile she wears is quick, fake, planted on. Entirely too optimistic.

"Let's go, children," Effie says, even taking one of Gale's bags as we take to the house.

Madge gets the door and she and Gale stare at each other.

They have both grown older in the past three years. Even the lines and tightening of skin on Gale's face is new to me. Madge has grown taller, more slender. Even beneath that farm dress, you can tell that she is beautiful. But Gale's face doesn't change at the sight of her. He just says, "Madge."

"Gale," she says.

Then Effie fills the awful silence with her babbling as she commands everyone to come in and wash up, checking in with Madge on the status of the soup on the stove and commenting about the delicious smell. Sometimes I cannot stand Effie and her posh ways. But in situations such as this, I cannot be more grateful.

Supper goes by well. Madge leaves early to carry food to her mother, though she had done this already beforehand. This tray is for Peeta. It also gives her a chance to get away from Gale, who, through some sour determination of events, ended up sitting across from her.

Haymitch takes this as a cue to start up a conversation. He begins with Gale about his time in the army, about his barracks and the enemy and the war front. Suddenly I remember in his study a cupboard filled with medals and honors. No doubt tokens of what Haymitch received in the first World War. He has hardened lines on his face as he listens to Gale. He can remember everything.

The conversation turns and my soup that I have been playing with has grown cold. But I eat it anyway, bit by bit. Never has anything made me more angry than having food being wasted. Gale says, "I'm planning to stay here for a couple of weeks before I go to visit my mother in London." Effie nods and exclaims about how happy they are that he is staying.

So this means that for two more weeks, we will have to hide Peeta. And keep the children from giving slip about his existence. We may actually be able to do this.

After dinner Prim and I do the dishes. Gale leans against the counter, Posy at his hip, and talks to us. I forgot how wonderful and how easy it is to talk with Gale. Every word is heartfelt and every sentence is true. From serious to hilarious, we catch up there by the sink, some old London tune playing in the background.

When we're done, Prim takes Posy by the hand and up the stairs for her bath. Gale says to the boys, "Go get ready for bed. Go." Ever the older brother. Rory and Vick groan and protest but do it anyway.

Gale turns to me then. I am on the last pot. The light has grown dark and now all the candles are light around us. Effie's idea of saving on the bill.

"Do you like it here, Katniss?" Gale asks, startling me.

I continue wiping. "Yes."

"You can honestly say you like it here better than London?" Gale says.

"Well, there is the pressing issue of there being _bombs _in London," I say, a little harsh.

"I know that. You know what I mean, Katniss. About living in a manor with so many people instead of the house in London. With a farm instead of a tiny yard. Not to mention, Katniss, that there could be bombs overhead _right now_." His voice is teasing but his face has faced so many trials that the look upon it has no joking feature in it.

And then I can hear the blackout horn from the village, loud and pounding in my eyes, so familiar, so dangerous, sounding out a warning.

Put out the lights. Bombs away.

**LOOK AT ALL THE PLOT TWISTS I GIVE.**

**I am not 100% that there were blackouts in the British countryside. But for the sake of the story, there shall be. **

**Thanks for reading! God bless you!**


	10. OHHHHHHHHHHH

_**Soli Deo gloria**_

**DISCLAIMER: I do NOT own The Hunger Games. Things shall take interesting turns. XD**

A blackout. An air raid. We've got to get out of here. I don't know if Effie and Haymitch know what to do. But I do.

I rush through the house, Gale following me, shouting my name. The children. We need to get the children out of here, to a shelter. But there's no time. No time. The shelter is in the village. We will have to move everyone down to the root cellar.

Effie is looking around, bewildered, in Haymitch's study as I come storming in. Haymitch stares at me and says, "I know what that sound means, Katniss. Get the kids."

Gale is too far behind me. He can't hear. "What about Peeta?" I ask, my hands holding the doorway of the study. I can feel the vibrations of the blaring alarm in the building. Feel it beneath my fingertips. I will never forget this feeling, this feeling of helplessness.

Haymitch stands up and douses his light. "Get the kids downstairs and then I'll get him down."

I nod and turn and am about to go into the children's room when I hear, "Katniss. I need help."

I am suddenly in the doorway of Madge's mother's room. Madge is kneeling beside her mother's bed, wiping at her mother's head with a cool cloth. But Mrs. Undersee looks pale, wrinkly, frail. So small, so thin and pale against the white sheets. Barely breathing. Looking worse than usual.

I stand frozen, unable to move. Suddenly Gale is beside me, asking in a harsh voice, "Get out of here, Madge!"

"I CAN'T, Gale," Madge says. Her hand is more patient than her mouth. It wipes at the cold forehead, her mother barely stirring as she groans. "My mother can't walk downstairs. I am staying with her."

"That's idiotic," Gale says angrily.

"Yes, and I'm doing it, and it is none of your concern what I do with my own mother!" Madge says, standing straight, her hands clenched in fists at her sides. "So unless the air raid truly is true and I burn in a bombing, I won't be moved from my mother's side!"

Gale reaches out and grabs her arm, making her twist angrily at him. "I'm done with seeing innocent lives being thrown away right before my eyes," he says, and he pulls Madge, his strength better than hers, stronger than hers, out of the room. She scowls and yells at him, in her plain voice with no real malice but with annoyance, authority. But Gale barely hears her, leaving me alone in the room with Mrs. Undersee.

I will not be forgiven by Madge if I leave her mother here when everyone is downstairs. That's when Haymitch appears in the door and says, "Get out of the way, sweetheart. Get all the curtains, douse all the lights. This house doesn't exist. Not on that German radar. Hurry!"

The curtains are pulled together; Haymitch has Mrs. Undersee in his arms, her blankets nearly swallowing her from sight as he swiftly takes her out of the room.

I run out of the room, shove the children in their pajamas to the stairs. I can hear the planes. The sound of the alarm. All pounding in my ears, forever to be there. I see Peeta's door is swinging open in the dwindling light. Perhaps he is already in the root cellar, hidden in the shadows from Gale's all-seeing eyes. Hopefully. I can only pray that as I run from room to room, the doors slamming and waving in the wind I create as the curtains are drawn, breaths pulled and pushed onto the candles to extinguish their flame. No color in the house. Everything black. Black. Dark.

Effie is the last one in the root cellar besides me. Her hair is in curlers, her eyes big and wide. She is quiet as she nods and I close the curtains. I take one last look outside. This countryside may be like this for a few moments longer.

Then I hear the airplanes.

The radio is quiet as I snatch it and race down to the root cellar.

Now, the root cellar is big. Much too big for Effie and Haymitch and Finnick and Annie, but big enough for Haymitch and Effie and myself and Prim and the Hawthornes and Undersees and Peeta to fit into. I don't see Peeta as I go down, my eyes taking in the shelves full of vegetables and the people. But a moment of eye contact with Haymitch and a slight nod is signal enough. He is safe. I am filled with relief. Peeta's safety is a priority.

Mrs. Undersee is lying on a pallet made of blankets. Prim has a cloth, though it is not cool. She uses it to soak up the sweat the poor woman is giving off. Madge has wrenched herself from Gale, who looks on with a stricken, blank look, as if the mere sight of Mrs. Undersee has made him frozen, unable to move. Madge kneels next to her mother. She utters no soothing words. No words of wisdom or asking about her pain. She knows her pain. Everyone can hear her voice her pain.

The children huddle in a corner, sharing a blanket. Effie has a candle, casting a tiny light over the entire space. She tucks it into a lantern, brightening the place. This place is so far into the country there is no stray light bulb hanging from the ceiling down here. But that's all right. We're all in the same space, can see each other's faces. All except Peeta's.

I take to looking for him when everyone is occupied with each other. Gale is at the entrance to the cellar, listening in. I can hear the wind above him as I move hesitantly away, then sprint to look around the shelves, the boxes, barrels.

I step on a foot. I fall to my feet, my hand reaching out and touching skin. Soft skin. My fingers slid up. A face. Peeta's face.

"Peeta." My voice cracks.

"Hey, Katniss," he says. His voice is surprised. "That's the air raid?"

I place his hand against my cheek so he can feel my nod. "Yes. Did anyone notice you coming down here?"

He shakes his head. "Haymitch made sure I was the first one down here. He unlocked the door, I think he has his own copy of the. He told me what the noise meant, and then I followed him downstairs and out the door. I looked out at the sky as he opened the doors. I didn't see any airplanes."

"That's because our government has a system where they catch them in sight before they get so close that we can't do anything," I explain.

Peeta nods, making a voice of agreement in his throat.

"How long are we going to stay down here?" he asks, looking around.

"I don't know. Until the alarm stops screaming," I say, frowning. I deplore that sound. But it has saved our lives more than once, so I have no reason to complain. So I clamp my mouth shut and pat Peeta on the shoulder before he notices the amount of time we have to spend together and decides to bring up earlier today. I'd rather not. I am not one that is good in confrontations. Gale and I and our arguments before the war about the smallest things are a testament to that. We have similar temperaments, always rising to the chance of defending ourselves. Peeta is much like my mother, like Prim. Calm, not wanting to cause trouble. But not all questions can be hidden forever.

At the side of Mrs. Undersee, I discover that she is doing worse. Even though I am no medical professional, even I can tell the telltale signs of a worsening sickness. The sick wheeze of her breath as she pulls it out of her body. The warm body heat she gives off to the entire cellar. The frailness of her hands, like Mags's rather than that of a middle-aged mother's. Madge holds her hand and looks worried. I know Madge doesn't know what to do. All she can do is catch at her hand.

Gale watches from the sidelines, not saying a word at all. He doesn't know what to say to this at all. Prim is busy, employing the older experiences of Haymitch to help her. He has a bottle in hand. He tips it into the woman's mouth instead of his own. I stand back and watch. Posy has one hand in Gale's, her other in mine. She looks up and says, "Katniss, how much longer?"

If there is something I can do, it is taking care of little girls. Make them comfortable. Brush their hair from their face. Rub their backs until they fall asleep against my chest. I braid Posy's hair as I sing her a little lullaby, willing my voice is be louder, stronger than it is, to override the air raid alarm.

Gale sits next to me after a while. The boys lean against the wall, poking each other out of boredom after a while. Gale throws them a look, an almost paternal one, and they fall silent. Gale leans his head back next to mine and sighs, his eyes closed. I lean my head against his as Posy's heartbeat hits the same pace as mine.

"What a day," he says.

"Have a good time on the train?" I ask, hoping at least one part of his day went well.

He lets out a rueful laugh. "Catnip, since when does anyone have fun on a smoky, crowded train full of soldiers covered in injuries? It's a painful reminder, Katniss."

"How is your arm?" And then I back my head away from his, remembering the bandage there.

"Put your head back, Catnip," he says.

I do so. He sighs again. I can feel his chest move up and down side by side with mine. Gale has a steady, reassuring heartbeat. I can feel it against my own head, his pulse in his neck. Calm. There. Always.

"You can tell me," he says suddenly.

"What?" I say, too abrupt and startled to say much. My eyes circle around the cellar. Peeta is behind a shelf. I cannot see him. But did Gale, from his bird's eye view at the cellar doors, where he can see almost anything, did he see him? Are our chances at having a civil two weeks in gone?

"About everything," he says. He laughs again. A softer laugh this time. Gale's laugh. "Everything in the past year that you couldn't say in a letter, afraid of the post workers cutting out anything. Afraid of running out of ink. Talk to me, Katniss. Please. We have all the time in the world."

He's right. Between Gale and I, we have all the time in the world. We're stuck in a limbo, a holding cell, awaiting our fate. Will the bomb fall on the house, destroying it and burying us in its ruins? Will its remains be the dirt atop our grave? Or do we need to merely pass the time? Either way, I begin to talk. About my father's death (Gale knew that), my mother and how she has come back, but only somewhat. Of the days waiting out the bombs to pass by. How this is almost normal. I can wait forever. Of the news off the radio, how the London Blitz had been getting worse. How Mother and Hazelle had organized with the war office our departure from London. Effie. Haymitch. Johanna. Finnick. Annie. Mags. Even the two Jews Johanna and I saw. He tenses against me at that. But my soft voice lulls him into a less tense state.

I go on, leaving out Peeta. Only Peeta. Even though he is hiding out in this room, same as us. Maybe he can hear me. Maybe.

Soon I am out of words. My throat burns. I need water. But there is no water down here, mostly because we did not anticipate an alarm like this. But I expect we will be out of here within the hour. The prospect of staying down here the entire night is daunting. And dangerous. For Madge's mother's cough is rattling through the cellar like a bad omen, reminding us all of the fragility of the situation, and how we cannot treat this as something that will simply pass over. We need someone besides the old village physician with his expensive medicines. We need my mother, or someone who has the skills to verify our heavy payment.

But the alarm never stops blaring. Time passes in silence, save for the coughing and blaring. Then we feel it. Beneath our fingers, the vibrations of the bombs are felt. I don't know how many bombs it is. Maybe just one. Maybe a dozen. But I keep petting Posy's hair and whispering a lullaby to her, the only thing I can do now.

I used to do this with Prim. But she is straight-backed and working over Mrs. Undersee. She barely notices the messages everything outside is showing us as she takes care of the woman. And never have I felt so unneeded or proud.

The alarm suddenly goes off, after a while. Gale, so used to going out in dangerous situations, is the one checking outside the cellar. Haymitch stands behind him, and then Madge, ready to get her mother back to a space without such damp air.

Gale sticks his head back in. "It's safe. The house is still standing. Let's get everyone back up."

Haymitch carries Mrs. Undersee back upstairs. Effie follows him with Madge, speaking in eager but frightened tones. She is so relieved.

Gale bends next to me, rousing up his younger brothers to get up and get to bed. They do so numbly, passing him as he squats next to me. I can see the anxiety and determination in his eyes as he says, "Want me to take Posy?"

I nod. I need to get him out of the cellar so I can sneak Peeta back in before Gale notices him. That's my plan as I stand up and carefully hand off the little sleeping girl to Gale's one good arm. He shifts his arm and catches her against his side and then asks me, "Does that happen often?"

"The alarm? No. The first we've had," I say.

"Good. Or else the country would not be as safe as I had put faith in it to being," Gale says. He nods and heads up to the surface, Posy snoring at his side.

That's when I run to Peeta. I feel his hand in the darkness, catching mine. For reassurance, I grip his, tightening my fingers between the notches in his hands. "Let's go," I say. There's no time to waste. Peeta's room is so near the girls'. Gale is encumbered by Posy's weight and also his injury. But Peeta has one loud leg.

"Wait, Katniss," he says, and I throw him such a look in the moonlight that he should get the message. That we have no time. But his eyes are innocent and gentle and calm and everything that I am not as he says, "That was beautiful singing. The lullaby."

"You heard me?" I ask. My tone is sharp.

He nods.

I do not know what to say. Every song, every lyric, every note I know, reminds me of my father. How he would sing Prim and I to sleep. How he would teach me songs by the crackling fire. How he would sing to my mother and I would think it was the most sincere sign of love he could give her. But his memory reminds me of my mother's withdrawal, and that fills me with anger. Rage. Unspeakable emotions. And so I am rough as I drag Peeta up the steps. I should not be rough. It was a compliment he gave me, one I do not deserve when I treat him like this.

Effie is lighting the house slightly, still peering out the windows as she takes down the black curtains. She and I meet eyes as Peeta and I hurry through the kitchen. Her eyes scream _hurry_. Effie always wants us to hurry, to get things done in time. For once, I agree with her.

The stairs are dark. Out the window I can see no damage. Just little houses with their lights slowly being revealed as people take down their black curtains. I wait at the landing for Peeta. My hand had slipped out of his at the bottom.

"Katniss, slow down," he says. But he comes up to me, his height taller than mine, and I turn swiftly and head into his room. I hold the door while he comes in and then I shut it so abruptly that the paints on his dresser shake.

"Katniss." His voice is strange. Imploring. Puzzled. I turn to him.

"Yes, Peeta?" My voice is even. I have learned to keep my voice even. I am not a patient person. This is all I have to remain calm.

"Are you okay? You don't look good at all," Peeta says. He comes up to me, his eyes studying my face.

I look away, turning my entire head, and say, "Good night, Peeta."

But he catches my hand. His strength and boldness surprises me, and I turn, a little shocked, to see the calm expression on his face. "Katniss. Please. I need to talk to you."

"I—"

"Gale is not going to come looking for you. Not for two more minutes. Unless, of course, you want to spend more time with him. He is going to be here for only two more weeks, though," Peeta says. His grip on my arm slackens.

Something inside of him has deflated. Normally I'd walk away, too annoyed with him and the world to bother with good manners or hurt feelings. But the blue in his eyes is asking, coaxing me, to say, "Fine."

I take a seat on his bed. "What do you want to talk about?"

Peeta eases himself onto the bed next to me. My feet tap against the floor. I want to hurry through this. I don't have time for confronting my own feelings for him. They're too jumbled, in a pile that needs to be sorted. And I don't want to sort through them.

"I think it would be obvious, Katniss," Peeta says. His voice is firm. I am trapped. "You _kissed _me, and unless you have made it a habit of kissing men to convince them to stay hidden away from your other men, I'd like to know why you did it."

I take a deep breath. He is being gentle. Patient. So I will excuse the insult framing the phrase 'other men.' But I turn on him and say crisply, "There are no other men, Peeta. I only know that of you and Gale and previously Finnick." Before he died. Before he died so that they didn't even have a body to send back for the funeral. It was a depressing rainy day the morning we went out and stood beside the open plot as the preacher spoke aloud from the Good Book in his hands and Effie cried into her handkerchief. Annie hadn't been there. She was still in bed. She still is.

"Katniss." His tone then is pressing.

I inhale deeply. Exhale. I can't tell him because I don't know myself. I want to protect him. That was me merely protecting him. But I do not want to, after all he has gone through, with the war and the work camp and the loss of his family, crush his little hope in me.

I feel like burying my head in my hands. But the brush of his skin against my cheek had frozen me. I am still as he whispers in such a profound whisper that it sounds like he is telling me an important secret. "I remember that night, when you found me in the attic. I was so scared that you would turn me over to the policemen. But you didn't. And I've felt like you've saved my life, Katniss. More than once. Because every morning I have nightmares, ones that leave me in a pile of sweat, but ones that I don't remember as they fade away, like dreams normally do. But every morning I get to wake up to spend the day with you, Katniss. And you're the highlight of my day. Just being with you makes me feel like I can forget those nightmares, like I'm alive, Katniss. Like I'm not just surviving but _living_."

His finger twirls in a bit of stray hair from my braid. I can see his eyes, though he is not looking into mine but into my entire face. And I realize the sincerity of his voice, and wonder how much goodness he can see in me when I am the opposite of good. I am angry, hot-tempered, mean. He is my entire opposite. My entire other half.

And his mouth is hot on mine, his lips thick. I nick one of them, making him lean closer, his hand sliding around my neck. And I feel that ache again. That incredible ache that's half suffering and half living in bliss. Something stirs within me, hot and bothered and a mess and wonderful and I clutch him closer, my hands gripping him to me, like I'm taken over by a strange person moving my limbs instead of me being in control of myself. Except I am in control. I am exploding, intoxicated, burning brighter than the sun.

Finally, he pulls away, and his breath is soft and sighing, warm and relieved, against my ear. He leans his head against my hair. My braid swings next to his face, and I'm breathing heavily, excited, surprised. Because I never thought when I met Peeta he was going to be more than a person to hide.

But Peeta is mine to protect. A constant, a help in this life over the past few months. Through the events and tragedies sighted by the radio, through Johanna's anger and sarcasm, Annie's depression, Finnick's death, Effie's nervousness, Haymitch's drinking, Prim's fright and naivety, the Hawthorne children's little trials and tribulations that are associated with childhood, Peeta has been nothing but gracious. Helpful. And I need someone like that, someone to balance my fire with cool, soothing water.

I lose myself in him. My head fits against his solid shoulder, and he's laying down, and I fall asleep with my hand pressed against his heartbeat. It's steady, safe, under my hand. And I intend to keep it that way.

* * *

Madge comes knocking on the door that morning.

"Peeta?" she says.

Her voice echoes in my mind as I sit up. Peeta's hand slips off my head, and I throw him such a look that he turns serious. It's one that is resigning. One that says that he knows that I don't want Madge to know that we shared a bed last night.

I hide behind the door as he answers it. "Yes, Madge?"

"Have you seen Katniss? I need her help."

Peeta's voice is instantly concerned, seeing as Madge's sounds hurried, frantic. "What happened?"

"My mother is dying, and I need to send a message to my father. I need to send one _now_."

And I'm the only one who can send it.

**I didn't expect that Peeta/Katniss to go that way, so excuse me if it's TOO FAST for you.**

**Thanks for reading! God bless you!**


	11. Well, Here's This Tragic THING

_**Soli Deo gloria**_

**DISCLAIMER: I do NOT own the Hunger Games. **

**Gather around for a little history lesson, children, for Guest says that 'there was no reason for Jews to hide in Britain during world war!' Now, Britain and the Jews had a little history together before the War, and the Brits weren't happy with Jews immigrating to their country. Finally, Britain made it that Jewish immigrants couldn't come in their country, excepting a few thousand children. Therefore, the Brits aren't happy with Jews in their country, and Peeta illegally immigrated there. So, seeing that, if he was caught by the police, he could be taken down to the office on call of that.**

**See. I have used history to make a plot point, using this information to my advantage.**

**I'm sorry to all who understood that before, but I felt a little clarity had to be introduced here before the story commences.**

**Hence with the story now, *smiles* *closes history lesson***

The entire house is so quiet. As if it is certain that Mrs. Undersee will face certain death. It's only a matter of time, and we all know that. Serious faces, all reflecting grey and white, gather in corners around the house, whether it is by her bedside, like Prim and Madge and Effie and Haymitch, or the kitchen, where the Hawthornes are trying to keep their hands busy.

I am in there, shoving on my too-big boots. The message I have was written hastily by Madge, who insisted on it. 'Mother dying will not last hurry.' Non-explicit with exciting him to come here, thereby not allowing her father to be traced here. But he will know. And hopefully Mr. Undersee will come. For Madge's sake, at least. Or she will have no parents here.

Telegraming Mr. Undersee is not going to be helpful for this case. The telegram sender will have to risk something. His job. His life as he knows it, if he is found sending a telegram to a former Nazi. So he will need a bribe. And there is no wad of pound notes to shove in his hands. Haymitch is rich enough that we are self-sustaining, with him having bonds and grants, but nothing more. Nothing more to spare. That is why we scrimp and pinch, like much of the country. But I still need a bribe, and nothing I can find will entail the effort to send the telegram. Nothing here has enough value that can fit in the palm of my hand.

Except one thing.

So I race down the hill on Twill. I wish I had a bicycle, but that, unfortunately was added to the metal scrap pile. A lot from the old barn went to that worthless cause.

The village is dark and it's too early in the morning. I am grim and set to having to wake the telegram clerk up as I ride in, diving down from Twill and holding her reins as I approach the train station. I tie her to a post and walk towards the telegram office, dodging several people. There's smoke and people rushing past me. Some are soldiers heading off to war; some are others on leave, waiting to find a pretty girl to spend the night with. I keep my head high and avoid eye contact. I am not going to be deterred when my heart is racing, reminding me of my dangerous mission.

At the window, the clerk is half-asleep. It is so early, but I am wide awake.

I slam on the message on the sill.

"I need to send a telegram," I say crisply.

"Fine," he says. I take a deep breath as he starts preparing it, and I say, "It cannot be mentioned on record."

"Why'nt?" he wonders.

"Because of the address it's being sent to," I say firmly.

"This ain't being sent to no enemy, girl, is it?" he says. He's a large, pudgy man. Hasn't missed too many meals. Probably from illegal food rations. He knows the black market, and so he knows illegality, and so he knows how to blackmail and bribe.

"Depends on what definition of enemy you're abiding by," I say.

"Lawful," he says.

"No._ You're_ not." I lean forward, my face hard and my tone unrelenting. "What payment am I due you for this?"

His black beady eyes look up and down my body and says, "Is money an object?"

"Yes," I say.

"Well, then . . ." I am not imagining the greed in his porky little eyes.

Then I reach inside my pocket and pull out a chain. Attached to that chain is a locket, beautiful and expensive, silver.

"But I _have_ an object," I say sharply, cocking my head and watching the lust deflate in his eyes. I am not one to flaunt my body as a currency. I am too shrewd a worker, a trader, to go down that route.

The clerk, grumbling, takes it. And I have won. I watch his little sausagelike fingers pound at the telegraph, and then I turn on my heel, gather Twill's reins in my hands, and head back up the hill, just as a roll of thunder fills the sky.

* * *

The house is quiet, still. I hand off Twill to Rory to take care of and hurry upstairs.

I find the lamp lit by the bed in Mrs. Undersee's room. It casts an orange light on a pale white room, all the faces pulled and down and sunken in. Even Prim's and Madge's hair, so brilliant blonde, is pale in the light. Madge stands up immediately, asking, "Is the message sent?"

I nod, tugging off my scarf as I survey the scene. Prim is trying to keep Mrs. Undersee cool, but her head is so red. And her moans of grief, anguish, agony, supply the air with a need to get out. But I stand stalk still, and then I turn when I recognize the presence behind me.

"Peeta," I say, my tongue sharp.

The man has a bucket of fresh pumped water in his hand, his forearm covered in what has splashed out. And he is entirely idiotic in doing this, seeing as Gale is downstairs still, isn't he? And how did Peeta get past him with the water? Was he using the tub's water? Why was PEETA even helping?

I scowl and take the water forcefully from him. "Why aren't you hiding?" I whisper hastily.

"Madge needed help, and I was perfectly able to get water, Katniss," Peeta says, too calmly for my mood. Too calmly for the fact that I am trying to retain peace in this household, trying to keep the battlefield survivor from founding the illegal escapee hiding in this house. We are trying to keep Gale, with his anger and rage and hatred for things that caused this war, from finding out that we have a piece of the war here in our house. Not necessarily one that caused the war, but one who had experienced it and had been there. Who can trigger Gale into anger. Not only at us for trying to deceive him (for his _benefit_), but at Peeta for merely being here. He's an all-too-close reminder of how the war is affecting this family.

"Gale," I say, as a reminder, as I set the bucket down for Prim to use. Next in order of business is getting a doctor in here. Prim has conditioned Mrs. Undersee as being fatally diseased, but surely there is something we can do to keep her alive until her husband gets here.

I go downstairs and begin to take off my outer coat and warm things. The kitchen is stifling with heat, though the wood pile is shortening. I will need to cut more wood. I catch sight of Effie worriedly making a weak combination of tea and coffee and call her attention. "I need you to call Dr. Aurelius and get him to come here as soon as possible. We need to keep Mrs. Undersee alive until her husband gets here." Because my mother never saw her husband die. Was never there in his final moments. And that was what killed her.

Effie flies to the phone, talking to the operator and getting the doctor on the line, quickly coming up with a fake story for Mrs. Undersee as it passes her mind to her tongue in less than a second.

The children sit worriedly around the table, sure of the affliction laid on the house, not sure what to do because of it. I set a pot of water on the stove, for porridge. Then the hatchet is in my hand and I'm outside, slamming all that has been mounting on my back for the past few weeks into the wood, cracking the logs into two pieces. Soon I have a good quantity, and I think about having Gale help me the best he can with felling a tree before he leaves.

I bring the wood into the kitchen and start setting up breakfast. Gale is sitting at the table, tired lines on his face. He watches me stack the wood, and asks, "Where did you go this morning, Catnip?"

"The telegram office. Had to send word to Mr. Undersee to get here while he could," I say quietly. Both of us look to Effie, who is using her worried but charming voice, one that commands and demands. It works, and she places the phone back onto its spot and says, turning and taking a deep breath, "Well, Dr. Aurelius is packing up and will be here in a few minutes. Isn't that such good news?"

It means we can breathe a little easier. But only slightly.

I add the porridge oats to the water and leave Rory with a wooden spoon and the task of keeping it from sticking and getting lumpy as I hurry up the stairs. My breath clouds as I go up, realizing then just how cold it is up here. No wonder Prim already has rags and blankets all stacked atop Mrs. Undersee's bed.

I inquire, ask how she's doing. I don't know any medical terms concerning her, but Madge's face, so pale and sunken in and depressed and calm, tells me everything.

"The doctor is going to be here this morning," I say.

"Fine, that sounds fine," Madge says, taking a deep breath. "Does this endanger us all further?"

I shake my head. "She can bear a false name and identity, for a morning. You can hide, along with Peeta," and this seems to invoke him from the floorboards as he brings more water. I turn to him as he sets the water down. He needs to understand. "Peeta, you need to hide back in your room."

"I'm tired of having to hide and not contribute anything, Katniss," Peeta says suddenly, his voice cracking slightly as he steps back from my touch. "I can't sit down while this entire house is reeling. I've done so for too many months. Don't make me do it again."

"Peeta," I say roughly, as Prim and Madge dutifully attend to Mrs. Undersee quietly around us, "just listen, okay? You're making everything turn out of the plan. We haven't made a plan to tell Gale yet, so you need to go back to the room. I'm sorry. But now is not the time to get out of the plan."

Peeta's blue eyes crack a little, showing anger in the cracks. But he turns and begins to walk out. But the doorway is blocked by a body that's taller, heavier, and more bulky, hefty, dangerous, than his.

"Katniss," Gale says, "who is this?"

I stand in front of Peeta, shoving him behind me. "He's Peeta, Gale."

"Who IS he? And did he just get here? Or has he been here all this time? Katniss!" Gale says.

Gale has an anger like mine. So in order to win against someone like myself, I have to be the opposite of myself. Which, in the case of an argument, is being calm.

"Gale. Let's act rationally."

"Rationally? Katniss, this is not something that's rational!" Something in his eyes fades. I don't know if it's realization or his respect and confidence in me. His voice comes out flat, calm, then. "He's a Jew, isn't he?"

I can't find any words to say anything. The look on his face, as if I had just broken his heart, stomped on it, crushed it, ruined our trust with one single blow, stings me harder than I want it to.

Then his voice gets angry. "Tell me, Katniss! What is it?!"

Then the light to the room turns on, so white that it's blinding. Effie peeks over Haymitch's shoulder as he storms in, yelling, "What the hell is going on?" His eyes take in the scene, and he says, "Oh, so the kid knows, now? Okay. So he does." He turns to Gale. "I have a village doctor coming over here in less than fifteen minutes. He's completely patriotic, and I'd rather he didn't find this kid. So just shut your trap."

He looks at Mrs. Undersee, saying, "You are seriously yelling and arguing when she's dying? Pathetic." He waves his arms, and I am somehow pushed out, until Gale is on one side of the hallway, Peeta and I on the other. Haymitch stands in the doorway, as a peaceable party between us, though he looks like he wants to bash all our heads in til we bleed.

"Now, Hawthorne," Haymitch says, waving a hand from him to Peeta, "meet Peeta. He's a Jew hiding from the authorities. He lives here. That's just the fact of the matter. So shut up, or I will stab you in the other arm." Then I remember how Haymitch always sleeps with a knife in his hand, waking up and swinging it wildly when I come in to talk to him about something. I have no doubt that he will do good on his threat. He probably picked up the habit sleeping in his filthy tent during World War I. He killed men then. I have no reason to doubt his threat now.

"Peeta, meet Gale Hawthorne. World War II survivor, obvious threat to your existence in this manor. Now, if you two are going to stay here, just follow my rules. I don't have rules. But now I do. No fighting. No injuring. And no turning anyone in this manor in to the police. Do that, Hawthorne," Haymitch turns to Gale, "and I'll kick you and your sister and brothers out myself."

Gale's lips are in a tight line. But he nods, his body still tense. He looks back at Peeta, who draws closer to my side. Not, I realize, to use me as a protection from my best friend, but rather for _him_ to protect _me_ from Gale.

I am not afraid of Gale. But this gesture surprises me.

Haymitch sighs. "I'm done. Effie, get me a new bottle from the cellar," and Haymitch disappears into his study, slamming the door as he does so. I realize that he was sober that entire time. But being sober is too tough for him. Too painful. All this is too painful, so he drinks.

The next fifteen minutes are hurried. Posy screams from the front of the house that the doctor is coming up on his wagon. I pull Peeta into his room, my hands on his arms in a need for him to listen to me. But he nods, not saying a word, and I let go and close the door behind me. He now knows what it is like when someone opposes when finding of his presence here. And Gale is not one to listen to rules.

He sits in a chair by Mrs. Undersee's bed, glaring at something invisible. I can feel the anger and the surprise and distrust rolling off of him. I can always tell when he is angry with me. He is even more so than usual, but I don't have time for that. At the doorway, I say, "Posy says Dr. Aurelius is here. Effie's talking with him."

This is the cue for Madge to come out of the room. She is hesitant to do so, but finally Gale stands up and grabs her arm and leads her away. This is not done with unneeded but reluctant force, as Madge does not fight as she did last night. No. She simply allows him to lead her to a place to hide away from the physician.

Effie stays in Mrs. Undersee's room with Prim while Dr. Aurelius examines her. I check on the boys and Posy downstairs. They play cards at the coffee table, keeping themselves occupied. I take a deep breath on the stairs and walk up and decide that Gale needs to talk. I know that everything builds up inside of him until he explodes. And after all he has been through in the war, not all he has told me about, he might one day explode. Like a volcano.

I find him outside Madge's door, leaning his forehead against the door. I touch his arm, and he whips around and is about to throw me down, like a bag of sand. But his face is startled and he stands back, leaving my heart pounding in surprise.

"Sorry, Catnip," he says. "Military training leaves my nerves frayed. You came from behind. Touched me. That was instinct."

I take a deep breath. I do not want to apologize to Gale for saving a life, for doing a good deed. But I know he expects me to. So I must, for peace in the household.

"That was fine." I really shouldn't have come from behind him like that. "You're not fine, though."

"No, not really, Katniss," he says sharply. He only calls me Katniss when he is too angry to call me Catnip. He turns to me, and his chest constricts with a sigh that's half-hearted. "Katniss, first you lied to me. You didn't tell me Peeta was here. He's a _Jew_. Along with the concept of you hiding him from me, you _hid _him from me and didn't even have a plan to tell me later on." His voice is husky.

"We did—"

"But when, Katniss? Were you even going to? Really? If I just didn't find out, and things went on normally, at the end of the two weeks, wouldn't it be easy to not tell me? Instead of breaking the peace of a goodbye, you don't say a word?" He shakes his head. "Katniss . . . growing up with you . . . I thought I knew I could trust you. I thought that . . . secrets like this . . . _life_-threatening ones, you could tell me. I was just in the army, for the love of God. You can trust me."

There's no way to explain to him that I was scared of his reaction. How after all he had found in the army, after going to war with a gun, killing man after man, was he going to reaction about a part of the war finding itself nestled in the same house as his brothers and sister?

"I'll trust you now," I say.

His face is pulled into a grimace. "I wish you did before."

Then he turns and leaves. I don't know where he goes. But I watch him walk down the bottom of the hill as Dr. Aurelius passes me. I turn to him, and he shakes his head. "How is her condition?" I ask.

"Fatal. Her illness is imparting death to every part of her body. It is highly unlikely she will survive. The best you can do, since the hospitals are full and none of you want to pay extensively for someone who will inevitably perish, is to make her comfortable," Dr. Aurelius says. His briefcase looks so dark and sinister in his white hand.

"How much longer?" I ask, my voice devoid of any emotion.

"Perhaps a week, at most," Dr. Aurelius says. He goes down the stairs, Effie skating after him. Her chipper voice masks her real horror that she speaks to me with at the entrance to Mrs. Undersee's bedroom, once Dr. Aurelius is heading down the hill.

"Such a short time," Effie says worriedly. She's scared that Mr. Undersee won't get here in time.

I'm scared that Mr. Undersee won't get the message, but I can only hope. The sight before me doesn't provoke hope, though. It's one of despair, pale coldness. All their heads are bowed, all the blonde hair bleached and lifeless. Madge has tear streaks on her face, but no tears are hidden in her eyes. But she shudders and her hands tremble and suddenly I'm hugging her. I don't know why. We never share physical contact.

But she is losing her mother. I lost my mother. I can empathize.

So I clutch her to me like I did all those months with Prim, trying to impart some part of love and sadness on my behalf to her. To let her know that I'm sorry.

The house grows quieter still that day. The sky grows dark, rain falls. And then, finally, snow. Gale takes to sitting by the stove, feeding it wood. I go hunting, mostly so I can breathe out in the woods. It's stifling in the house. I need to breathe.

I come back, my cheeks full of color, and skin the animals. The children play half-heartedly in the living room. Effie is the messenger from upstairs to downstairs. Haymitch hasn't moved from his study. And Peeta hasn't come out.

When he finally does, I catch sight of him over my shoulder. My hands are covered in blood, my knife out and skinning down the body of a squirrel. But he doesn't move. Doesn't even seem horrified by the blood and death I'm causing. No. It's worse. His eyes are blank, dead, at the sight of the tortured body in front of him.

It's not quite a human being, but he's seen humans treated like animals.

Later that night, not knowing what to do with my hands, I play nervously with my hair. My attempt at knitting has failed and lays in my lap. The radio crackles in the background. But then suddenly I feel the weight of something against my side, and Peeta is there, everything strong and solid and broken. Just like me. But he has no anger like I do, like I do against the world, for twisting Gale's point of view, for torturing Mrs. Undersee.

And I don't need any more anger. I need peace. Cold, soothing water. I lean my head against his shoulder, which is soft but roughly corded. I close my eyes, and feel his fingertips play with my braid. I feel my body relax, my mind going clean as I try to wipe away every bad stain I've left on it, until only the thought of Peeta remains . . .

Somewhere around me, I hear a gasp. Little surprised sounds from the children. And a sigh.

Then another sigh. One of contentment from Peeta. I feel it reverberating from his chest.

And I breathe as well.

**Yes, now Gale has found out that Peeta is there. Is there anything new? XD. **

**Please, tell me what you think of this chapter. Every review is read and appreciated! Thanks for reading! **


	12. The Undersees

_**Soli Deo gloria**_

**DISCLAIMER: I do NOT own The Hunger Games. I see that many of you are on differing sides on how Gale's anger was rational in that last chapter. Is it terribly bad of me for liking all these different opinions? It's exciting to see everyone getting into it! :)**

There's no answer from Mr. Undersee. I even go down to the telegram office, just to check with the clerk to see if he sent it. He begrudgingly tells me he did.

I sigh and take Twill by the reins. I walk as slow as I can as the snow falls slowly down from the sky. It's been getting grey, slipping into November as the snow comes down harder. Now, though, it's delicate, dancing and landing on my eyelashes.

My steps are purposeful to more than making sure that I don't fall in the slippery mud. No. I don't want to go back to the manor. That is why I really wanted to go on this errand. Not because I was concerned about the message. Well, I was a little. Madge's face seems so withdraw, her tone of voice quieter than usual, like the energy draining from her mother is doing the same to her. Effie even has her in bed more, in case some disease took possession of her.

But I know that it will take so long for the message to get to Mr. Undersee. Even longer for him to respond. Even longer for him to arrive for his wife's final moments, which are dwindling faster than we realize.

I spend more time hunting, my hands on my bow instead of doing laundry inside the house. Prim, seeing as all she can do is worry over Mrs. Undersee now, does the laundry. She doesn't mind. She even understands, her brow furrowed as she observes in the house, the reasoning behind my increasing trips out to the woods.

We were running out of meat. That was true. And I do find less meat in this snowy weather, the animals all disappearing into their own little burrows. Hiding away from the cold to eat and then escape to unconsciousness for the winter. I wish I could be like them, but I instead hunt the creatures and bring them to the Hub, the black market, and to the dinner table. We have meat now. More than we need. But that is not why I go hunting.

The tension in the house has never been thicker. The news of the war hangs in the air, the radio now our key source of information. Johanna spends less time over here, the walk too much for her after a long day of work. So at night the radio is treated as a special guest, treating us to the news of the USS _Reuben James _getting torpedoed near Iceland, killing over one hundred sailors. That the Soviet Union was addressed by their leader, making us uneasy as to having the Soviet Union coming to a victory soon. Or the news of Berlin and other cities getting heavily bombed. It's sobering, and even the children feel the seriousness of the matter._  
_

It seems almost childish, then, that there is another layer of tension to lay next to this heavy news. Gale is still angry, at all of us. He keeps his words away, though, always talking to us in a controlled voice. Even me. He always told me everything, every good and ugly thing he loved and hated and wanted someone to know. But not now. Now he barely talks to me.

I deserve it. I know if Gale had done the same to me, I would have been angry. Avoiding him. Giving him terse answers in a curt voice. Just like I did with my mother when she came out of her depression.

But I don't like it. It pains me, causes a wide-spreading ache through my body, to see him live in the same house as I do, and yet not want to speak to me. I have breached his trust, and neither of us are handling it well.

Peeta had been a quiet person before. Now he's even more. Not in actions, though. He helps Prim with cooking and plays with the kids, an easy smile on his face to defuse what worry they have, distracting them from the things around them. But he talks less than he did before. Even more so when he is in the same room as Gale and I. He realizes what he has done. He stands behind his actions, but that doesn't mean he's not sorry for watching what beautiful friendship Gale and I had had crumble right in front of his eyes.

That pains me also, to see him feeling horror at himself for something he has only had a slight part in creating. I should have told Gale. I should have. But I didn't. My fault this has happened. My fault. My fault.

Haymitch finds all this tension disgusting. He looks at the three of us with a strange mix of anger and annoyance. Effie trills and keeps up conversation the best she can. Effie. Always trying to lighten the truth, always trying to brighten things up. But the history that has happened between us has mounted too much. Not even Effie can help.

That's why we need new people in this house. Well, not necessarily _new _people. But fresh faces.

I talk to Johanna as I stop by the house, Twill's reins still in my hand as we stand in the doorway. Johanna's face has splotches of red on her cheeks, her frame a little thinner than it had been. Though still as sharp as she had been, it seems as though the cold weather has settled into her bones. I can see how transparent her skin is, how her shoulders slump from exhaustion after long, hard days at the war office.

"This weather is killing me," she says, matter-of-factly.

And that's when I get an idea.

I arrive home with a quicker pace in my step. I take care of Twill and use the broom to sweep the geese into their pen. I come through the back door to see Prim and Peeta watching a pot of soup boil, both anxious. Buttercup greets me with a scathing scowl. I return it with vigor and walk up the stairs. The second story of the manor is strong with cold. There is no central heating, and so my breath is apparent in the air as I come to Haymitch's study and knock one. Twice. Just to give him the benefit of the doubt that I'm actually waiting for permission to enter his study.

No answer. He's probably asleep or drunk.

I go into my room and grab the white pewter pitcher of ice cold water. It sits there for use of washing our hands and faces before bed. It's something that wakes us up more than it cleans us up.

I go to Haymitch's study and enter. I find his figure against his desk, his torso laying across it. His snores fill the air.

I grab the bottle from the desk and fling the water on him. Take a step back as it falls on him, waking him up and making him bear his knife.

He growls once realizing my routine, and he turns to me, asking, "What do you want?"

I shouldn't be interested nor concerned what with Haymitch does with his life. But I can't help but want to push him out of here, out of this room, this house. Because all he does is drink and sleep. He doesn't read. He doesn't write, play an instrument. He does nothing to improve himself, do something with his life.

He's probably been like this since his fiancée died. But I don't care. My mother's husband died, and now even she is out volunteering, helping those injured by the bombs. He just sits in here and drinks.

"I have a question and I need the correct answer," I say.

He rubs the sleep out of his eyes. When he opens them, he reveals that they are bloodshot. "Depends on what the question is. And no questions right now, sweetheart. I just woke up. At least let me have my coffee first."

"We're out of coffee. Besides, it's ten o'clock," I say, my voice holding no move from my mission here.

He realizes this and sighs. "What is it?"

"Do you know how many guestrooms are in this house?"

"I couldn't care how many."

"How many fingers am I holding up?"

"Three."

I was raising none. But I need an answer. And Haymitch holds (usually) to his promises. A drunk promise is still a promise when he's sober.

"What's the question, sweetheart, because I would REALLY like to get back to sleeping."

"I want to have Mags, Johanna and Annie live here."

This provokes him from his tired, drunken stupor. He sits up straight and stares me in the eyes. "No."

"Why not?" I challenge.

"Because we don't need any more people in this house, that's why. It's crowded, and more people taking over my house makes it less of my house and more of the local watering hole," he says.

I shake my head. "You barely spend any time out of this study. This study is _yours_. You just own the rest of the house." I shift on my feet, the pitcher still in my hand. "They're struggling down in Mags's house. Mags is getting old, and Johanna is always working, and Annie needs more attention. She can barely get out of bed. Prim and Madge and I can help. We already help. You'd hardly know they're here."

Though I can barely be not mad at myself for wanting _Johanna Mason _living here, I feel a responsibility. To Finnick, to take care of Annie and his child, when the baby is born. To help Johanna, who spends more time sleeping at home than coming to visit to annoy us. To help Mags, who is getting so old that her sentences are now too garbled to make out more than one out of twenty words.

Haymitch finally takes a deep breath. Says gruffly, "Fine." He mutters something under his breath, something about how this house is no longer his. But I don't care. Because this house of his, he doesn't use it.

Johanna listens to the offer, and then closes her eyes. I know she's thinking of Mags and Annie for once over her own pride, and she nods in reply.

So the last Saturday before Gale leaves, we move them into Haymitch's manor. There's not much to move, since all the furniture is already at the manor. Mags doesn't seem overtly attached to her furniture as she leaves it in the house of disrepair. Her only attentions are spent on Annie, who is covered in blankets as she's moved in the wagon to the manor. And then Haymitch begrudgingly lifts her out from the bed and takes her to a bed down the hall from Mrs. Undersee's, where the older woman's coughing will not disturb Annie's much needed sleep.

I remember then, watching him set her down and then leave, that she worked for him for far longer than I have been here. That he knew her, and Finnick, well, and now he can't but feel sorry for her, despite it not being his nature to feel sorry for anyone at all.

Then I step forward and tuck Annie into the bed, feeling her rising belly under my hand as I smooth the covers over her. It feels round and strange, so out of place on her thin frame. My hand falls away, but it's as if she doesn't know I'm here at all. Her eyes are cast off to the left, cloudy and distracted. She murmurs something under her breath, her hand dragging down and rubbing circles on her enlarged belly.

When Johanna comes in and hangs up her painting, the one of her and Finnick, a soft, blissful, strange smile overtakes Annie's face. Her eyes fill with tears before she closes them and falls asleep.

Johanna sighs and says, "She can't sleep without it. Bet she think he's a comforting angel, watching over her. Or something." Johanna walks out and I lower the lights, taking one last glance from Annie's enlarged, sleeping form, to the painted picture of the never-to-be couple. Then I close the door.

Downstairs, however, Effie is searching for me. She nearly pounces on me, handing me a piece of paper. I read the stark short writing, and then look at her in disbelief.

"It's from the telegram clerk," Effie says. She gulps. "He received a reply to the message you had him send. He even delivered it." There's a strange look in Effie's eyes, like she doesn't know how this could have possibly happened without the man having gotten some sort of payment. A bribe, to have him hand deliver a _reply _to the message.

But I smile and nod. But my smile is fake.

Mr. Undersee says he's taking train after train. If all goes well, he will be here in two days.

As always with having new guests at the manor, this leaves the question of hiding Peeta.

We all sit around the dining room table that night. The snow falls all down, outside, with the windows showcasing it to us. Haymitch's hand is wrapped around a bottle. For our sakes, I'm glad he isn't a raging drunk. Just an angry one. A sad one.

Gale plays with his hands, almost like he needs something to keep his mind together. His eyes glance between me and Peeta, who sit next to each other. Then they go to Madge. Madge is sitting up straight in her chair, her breathing even, her manner calm and reserved. Put together.

Effie, as always, is the most shaken up about all this. "We simply must do something about Peeta," she says. She looks to him and says pathetically, "Now, it's not as if we don't_ like_ you. Your company is lovely, Peeta." Nicer than mine. "But we cannot have Mr. Undersee find you!"

That is true. While I should have found it in me to trust Gale, as I always have, I would have told him. He wouldn't have blown up as much as he did by finding out on his own. It's different with Mr. Undersee. He's a former Nazi. No doubt he has dwindling loyalties to them. If he found Peeta, he would no doubt report him. I have no thought of him doing otherwise.

"That much is obvious, sweetheart," Haymitch says.

"So what do you suggest we did, then, Haymitch?" Effie says, her voice trilling. She looks at him with such a hard expression that it's surprising. "We cannot chance another meeting with Peeta suddenly being revealed to Mr. Undersee so! He may become so with emotions, being so distraught over his wife, that he may do something harmful to Peeta!"

No. I will not let that happen. My hand sneaks from my side to Peeta's knee, rubbing the back of his own hand against his kneecap. He feels warm against me. His eyes skate to look at me out of the corner of his eyes, and I pretend to ignore him. No need to excite more anger from Gale.

"Peeta's smart enough to avoid him, isn't he?" Johanna asks, her voice sharp, her facial expression tightened.

Mags stands in the corner, humming to herself as she makes tea. She watches us all with a fascinated look in her eyes.

"You'd think that," Haymitch says. But Peeta has proved himself otherwise. And after the blow up between him and Gale, it's obvious that Haymitch will personally tie Peeta up and leave him in the guest room for the entirety of Mr. Undersee's visit.

"Are we going to leave him in the guest room?" Effie questions, to no one in particular.

"If he can promise to stay there," Gale says suddenly. His eyes don't go near me and Peeta at all. I'm glad to him for it.

"Kid," Haymitch says, looking to Peeta, "I'm not sure if you understand. If Mr. Undersee sees you, he will kill you. Don't expect him to do otherwise."

"He isn't as nice as Gale, I take it?" Peeta says, raising his eyebrows in question.

The squeeze I pass to his hand is tight. Mean. Meaningful. Don't overstep your boundaries, especially when you have a wooden leg and Gale has army training.

"Not exactly," Gale says. He meets Peeta's eyes then. "I have mercy."

Madge suddenly says, "Can I see the paper, Katniss?"

I offer it to her, and she takes it in her hand. She stares at it a moment, not even reading the words. A tear falls down her cheek, but none of us move to acknowledge it.

"So you've got to keep your door locked, Peeta, when he's here. Or else he will discover you, and hey, bad situations arise more," Haymitch says, as Mags starts to carefully bring teacups to the table. I stand up and shove away Buttercup from in front of her with my foot and move to help her. She takes slow steps, deliberate, and I get many more served than she does. But she means well. Usually, I don't.

I resume my seat and Peeta says, "Who's picking up Mr. Undersee at the train station?"

"I'll do it," Haymitch says, exciting surprise from me. But he doesn't say anything more, and I can't think of what to say to that.

The matter seems settled. That doesn't make any of us less nervous, no matter how our outsides are hardened, ready to protect Peeta when we have failed in the last two attempts. Third time's the charm, or so the axiom says. For Peeta's sake, I hope it _is _true.

* * *

The next morning, it is too early when Haymitch gets news of Mr. Undersee's train coming in. He leaves as we fly about the house. Everything must be set to rights. Porridge is made and is lumpy and scarfed down by the children without a second thought. I don't trust Effie, as she is squabbling like a mother chicken as we all hurry away from her and her nagging. But the children are under her rule. They are carted to get clothes on as Johanna and I and Peeta rapidly stuff porridge down our throats. The anxiety of keeping this a secret though, a true secret, of Peeta from Mr. Undersee, makes my throat swell. In the end, despite my complete disgust, I feed Buttercup the remains of my breakfast.

I hear something. The sound of wagon wheels. I know Haymitch must have stalled the best he could. Haymitch is great at arguing. But it must have been a _very _early train.

They're back.

And Peeta is leaning against the counter, almost frozen as the sound fills the air.

Mr. Undersee steps down from the seat.

Effie turns on Peeta and without a word, too struck by the quickness of the situation, of how the tables have turned so quickly, takes him by the arms and leads him outside. I realize what her idea is, and I race out and throw open the cellar doors. They reveal a dark square of black and a set of stairs, but there's no time to light a candle. Peeta walks down and Effie watches after him worriedly, his bowl and spoon in her hand as she says, touching my shoulder, "We must go inside, Katniss. Talk to Mr. Undersee, act entirely unsuspicious."

How can I act perfectly fine when my heart is pounding, the entirety of the situation being thought through my mind with every step I take? But I breathe and smile and shake Mr. Undersee's hand when he offers it. I step back and Madge hangs at his side, not wanting to let go, and suddenly I'm hit with the image of Prim, as old as she is now, doing the same with my father. And envy pours through me. So I don't say a word as I step aside and Effie leads the two of them up the stairs to Mrs. Undersee's deathbed.

Gale goes to sit on in the living room and Haymitch takes a seat, slumping in it. He and I met eyes. "You hide the kid?" he asks.

"Effie and I put him in the cellar, since you arrived quicker than we thought you would. Thanks for the warning," I say.

"You're welcome," he says.

I go and pull Peeta out, letting him shake off the chills of the cellar before we crunch through the snow back to the house.

It is easy to get him back to his room. He and I even lean against the Undersees's door, to hear if Peeta's safe from Mr. Undersee's temper. But all I can hear against the door is muffled crying.

He and I exchange a look and he steps into his room without a word, silently knowing that I will relay the news to him as soon as I can.

Effie comes out of the deathroom, taking a deep breath. Her eyes shine, though. She bursts into tears upon looking at me, startling me. Somehow I end up hugging her, though this is decently awkward, seeing as I am confused as to why there are tears. But deep down I know. I know. The long, slow, inevitable has happened.

"She took her last breath while he was holding her _hand_! Oh _dear_!" Effie says. Suddenly she is straightening, dusting off her dress, and she says in a reasonable voice, "We must carry out our duties, then. We must call a coroner, we—we _must _get a coffin, call the church, see what they can do while the war is happening and we actually _do _have a body rather than like the time with . . . oh Finnick," and Effie hiccups and says, "Please go and distract Madge. You must do _something_. Nothing could be worse than having her mother's funeral plans discussed in front of her."

I nod and immediately walk in. Not thinking. All who are in there are the Undersees, father and daughter watching their dearest mother and wife, dead, on her bed. Effie comes behind me and sits Mr. Undersee down in a chair. She comes racing back with Prim, having commanded Johanna to make some tea. Madge shakes as I gently take her downstairs and sit her down on the sofa, where Gale is sitting. He watches her with a strange look. Not sure what to say. Her crumpled face tells him as much as what has happened as anything will.

I come back with a cup of tea. She shakes her head, tears streaming down her face as she squeezes her eyes shut, willing herself to be calm. I had that same face so many times. When my father died, it was all I could do. Stay calm.

Stay calm and carry on.

The tea is set on the table and I don't know what to say. It won't get easier from here on out, so there is no point in trying to pretend it will be.

But suddenly Gale is drawing Madge close to his side. She allows him to wrap an arm around her waist and lean her against his shoulder. She doesn't even care who this is who is doing it, but she only recognizes the comfort he is trying to offer. So she turns to him and buries her head in his shoulder.

He and I exchange looks. I feel a butterfly in my stomach. But it passes away easily.

Johanna watches this all with a sharp face, unable to say anything to much make things worse.

Madge's stifled sobs is the only sound in the room.

**Horrible, ain't it?**


	13. Counteraction

_**Soli Deo gloria**_

**DISCLAIMER: I do NOT own The Hunger Games. **

**Henceforth, more madness. XD**

Most of the talk I cannot contribute to. It's mostly of Haymitch and Mr. Undersee, with an occasional trying question from Effie. Of funeral plans. I know nothing about planning a funeral.

I remember when my father died. The body was sent back to London. We had to wait a long time for it arrive. A long enough time for tears to be wringed from eyes, leaving them blank and dry. Long enough for hearts to be hardened, made raw. Made distant. Detached. And it was actually Hazelle who arranged the funeral. Mother couldn't. Neither could I, and so I took care of the children with Gale as she made arrangements with the funeral parlor and church people. I watched them numbly. Because the pain and loss was so sudden. It was hard to truly take in. And all I could remember was seeing him leave at the train station.

Madge's last memory of her mother is her final moments. I got a lasting touch. His hand touching mine before disappearing back through the window. And that was the last I saw of him.

I'm numb now. Also fully alive. Busy watching the children on the front porch as they play in the snow. I had helped them into their snow clothes and then tossed them out of the house. One thing I know is that they need to stay out of the way.

Madge sits next to me, tears freezing slowly down her cheeks as they fall. But she doesn't sob. Doesn't act disheveled. She looks out into the strange cold grayness with an air of resignment. She, at least, was mentally prepared for the death of her mother. I hadn't been with my father. Thus, his death was far more devastating.

The air is chilly. Full of snowflakes. The wagon marks are evident from Mr. Undersee's arrival. The horses, I realize, need to be taken care of.

I get up and Madge follows me. Unlike me, she doesn't want to be alone when she is angry.

We each grab a set of reins. The horses's hooves smash and clop against the sodden, frozen ground. I turn to her, not sure why I'm saying this right now, but say, "Want to come hunting with me? I leave in an hour." I didn't know I was going to hunt. But that idea grows on me. The cold air. The ambiance of the house at the moment. And taking Madge with me will get Effie off my tail. She would scold me into oblivion if I left Madge alone.

Madge shakes her head. "No thanks. I . . . I need to stay here. For my father."

I nod in sympathy and we walk into the barn. Take care of the horses. Wipe them down, feed them, water them. Brush them. Check for anything wrong. Pat their necks and then walk back inside.

Gale is inside, with a pot of tea brewing. He says, "I know, Madge. You refused a cup earlier. But the best cure is tea."

"I don't need a cure, Gale," Madge says, almost without feeling. "There isn't any cure to my mother's death. Tea's only a distraction."

"Either that or liquor," Gale says, cocking his head and raising an eyebrow. Something in his eyes changes, though. Something hard grows there. That and a lump in his throat. Sudden remembrance. And then I realize that that is the only way they could comfort themselves out at the battlefield. Liquor. Or tea. The English way or the drunk way.

I put a hand on his shoulder, soft against hard, and he flinches. But he doesn't attack me like last time. But he trembles under my hand instead.

That's almost worse.

Madge accepts the tea this time. She and Gale sit down at the table, gather around the radio. Nothing but static, really. But they talk. About anything and everything, trying to keep the conversation light.

I don't know what horrors Gale saw during his enlistment, I know he saw men being killed. Killed men himself. Ended lives himself. And Madge was up each night with her mother; the grey bags underneath her eyes tell us this when she doesn't. I know she wiped at her mother's forehead, suffered through each groan and coughing fit alongside her mother. And they've been survived. This is not something that they talk about. But it's something they can bind together on.

They both have seen suffering. So much suffering.

And so has Peeta.

I go up with a teacup in my hand, gently placing it in his own hand. "No sugar."

"You remembered," he says, surprised, as I take my spot next to him.

I wrap my arms around my skirted knees. The coarse wool of the Hub rubs against my brawny legs. "Mrs. Undersee is dead."

Peeta is silent for a moment. "But that means she's no longer suffering. Languishing." His hand wraps around mine. "Believe me, Katniss. I've seen people dying. They've gone without so much comfort. Some collapsed in the cold on their way to work. Many starved. None had a warm bed or a daughter to hold their hand."

His voice has gone from soft, firm, knowing, to distant. Remembering. Something breaks in his eyes then, as well.

His eyes were never innocent. They just had a soft shield. To hide all the agony within.

I touch his cheek, making him meet my eyes. I swallow. "You don't have to talk about it."

"I want to know, Katniss, is does it get softer? Does looking back and remembering not bring on such bad memories, after a while?" Peeta whispers, his voice for the first time underlined with tears. And nothing makes me angrier than having Peeta cry. But I can't take my bow and kill what's made him tortured inside. I can't kill the entire Nazi or Japanese armies.

Nothing. I can do nothing to them. I can barely understand to the fullest extent of what has been imprinted, scarred, into Peeta's mind forever. But suddenly I'm filled with a fierce rage, wanting to keep him safe from those memories. Those torturous memories that must tear at him.

"Don't try to find out," I say, my voice demanding him to not.

"But how will I know if I don't try?" he says.

"Because I know the answer," I say. Because just the mere memory can trigger a deep agony in his eyes. I can see that. I can see it when he won't say a word of it. "And it's best to not say anything. Here," and I take the tea away from him and hug him close to me. So close that I can feel his steady heartbeat, the pulse in his neck. Suddenly his head is buried in the crook of my shoulder. My grip around him tightens.

He hasn't had anyone to divulge any of this to. No one.

After a moment, he breathes, "You're right." His voice shakes. "I don't want to talk about it."

"Don't remember it," I say. It's best to let the memories fade. Keep the warm, vibrant, good memories close, remember them always. Keep them alive. But bury deep the old, bad memories. Bury them so deep that you can't remember them. "Don't remember them." I pull him loose, my hand on his chin, and say, "Remember me. Remember me."

Focus on me. Because I am not so nearly as bad as a work camp.

His eyes flicker across my face, then my entire body. He gulps, coming back to my face again, meeting my eyes once or twice. His eyes are so bright. Blue. Dark. Light. Innocent. Speaking of a thousand days. Then he leans closer, almost hesitant, but steady. I know what he's doing. And I embrace it.

His lips are so oddly familiar. They are safe. Peeta is safe. But this feeling inside of me, spreading all over me, like that dull ache before, is not safe. It's dangerous. So dangerous. But I, for once, welcome the danger. I have been safe, up to this point, I realize. Prim has made me safe. My mother has made me safe. With me taking care of them, I've allowed myself to be safe, always. Away from any danger. Any danger means danger towards them. I would protect them from that danger.

But this danger isn't harming. It's risk-taking, wanting. Demanding. And I fall into it, wanting that danger. I grab Peeta's shoulders and his hand is at the back of my neck, supporting it. His thumb embeds into my skin, rubbing into it.

Our lips part. But I instantly lean towards him again, needing his lips on mine. He kisses me harder then, as if falling into me and no longer into the bad memories of his past. Of his parents and brothers, all dead by now. By the deaths he saw himself, of all the injustice, cruelty he had endured, seen, felt. Everything he wants to slip away he allows to, focusing on me as his anchor.

Finally he bends his head down, breathing heavily. His body heaves up and down with his breaths. Then he leans his forehead against mine, hot against hot, his eyes closed. And he smiles. It's a weak, terrible little smile. He whispers, "Thank you, Katniss." Then he kisses my forehead and I feel, for once, like I really deserved that thank you.

* * *

Peeta has to stay in the house. But he can walk around the house. No longer trapped in his room, he is one amongst us once more. Why?

Because Mr. Undersee is out all day with Haymitch. Going to the church, the funeral home. To the carpenter's for a coffin. Talking to people, getting to be friendly. He is convinced that no one knows him in this part of the country. His late sister-in-law, who was Madge's aunt, had lived with Haymitch for many days before their wedding. But he had never been there before or after she died. He hoped that any reputation that may be placed against him can be dissipated as he builds healthy, trustworthy relationships. So then if someone catches note of his old alliances, no one will believe them.

Not a healthy plan to rely on. But I have no word to say on it.

The funeral is two days later. No one attends but those in the house. No one can know that the Undersees are in hiding. Not even a relative, though they are informed to the fullest extent by Effie, who costs us a phone bill so long I know even Haymitch grunts with frustration, as she sits in the kitchen and goes down a carefully penned list of who to tell of their loved one's death.

Peeta has to stay in the house. But he doesn't mind so much. I kiss him and leave him to help the children get dressed. The cold weather with the addition of having to dress up has restricted what clothes they can wear. In the end I tug on and button their too-small coats and whisper to them to not remove them. It doesn't matter. The church is so cold that you can see your breath anyway.

Even Johanna attends. Mags stays at the house to cook and take care of Annie, and alert Peeta if he needs to know of anything wrong. She sits in the back of the rows filled, which are not a lot. Her eyes dark, her arms folded. When Madge and Mr. Undersee go to speak, she whispers, leaning close to my ear, "Never thought I'd ever attend the funeral of an ex-Nazi."

Johanna has a knack for having the most inappropriate remarks at the worst of times. I am only relieved that Madge is not in earshot.

The walk to the cemetery is not far. The graves mount outside the church in cheerless rows. Snow falls, muffling and tripping steps. The air is grey and heavy with sadness. Madge trudges ahead with her father and those carrying the coffin to the already dug grave. I help Prim along with Posy, keeping them from falling into the deep snow. Rory and Vick have decided they are capable of walking themselves, despite the fact that Prim and I each have longer legs than them. What little pride they had started the walk with diminishes as Gale hikes them back up with his one good arm, his other hung back in the sling beneath his coat.

He falls into step with Posy and I, on my left. His hand slips into his sister's, and we swing her between us until her little heavy weight leaves us to drop her back onto the ground again.

Gale's breath is but steam in the wind. "How long had she been sick? Do you know?"

I shake my head. "Months. That's all I know."

Gale nods. Looks at the ground. "When was the last time you had a letter from your mother?"

I think back, frowning in concentration. "A month or so ago. Even at the Hub, ink and paper is increasing in prices."

"Did she mention the condition of my mother?" Gale asks, his voice betraying the anxiety inside him.

"They're sharing a house at the moment. Your house. Prices have gone up." I do not want to mention that our old house had been bombed. My mother had been out volunteering at a hospital, away from the bombing, when the air raid siren called out. The bombs fell and the next morning she watched people going through our old house, through the refuse for anything worth saving.

"They can take care of each other, then," Gale says, almost as if to reassure himself. He catches my eye and nods, something hopeful in his own eye. And I think his forgiveness is what he is trying to portray to me.

I nod in response.

Our laughter with Posy dies once we reach the grave's side. Words are said by the tiny little preacher, but none of us say a word or truly listen to what the words are or mean, for our eyes are focused on the descending coffin. The last moment of Mrs. Undersee's before she disappears under the frozen ground of England. I can hear the gravediggers behind us. This has been a cold winter. The ground hasn't soaked up too much of the snow, for it's frozen. So the snow doesn't melt. Nothing moves but is frozen into place, until a time comes for it to drift away into spring. I hope for that time to come soon.

When we are finally led from the grave, Mr. Undersee's hands are on his daughter's shoulders, which are squared. Not as slumped as they had been. Gale walks behind them, hand in Posy's, eyes on Madge. Someone to concentrate on as teeth chatter and Effie welcomes a warm kitchen as she wrings her ruined handkerchief, which is turning slowly frozen in her worrying hands.

The wagon ride is bumpy on the way back. The air quiet. The crackling sounds of winter in the air. Nothing of bombs or a war around us. Nothing but nature and its perfect silence.

Every light in the house that can be lit is on in the house. That is our first sign of raising eyebrows, of wonder, of concern as we pile out of the wagon. Mags is at the door, pointing upstairs and trying to tell us something. I follow Prim up the stairs, Johanna passing us, as Effie and Haymitch try to make sense of what the old woman is trying to say.

The groans and moans of anguish at the top of the stairs tell us of the cause of Mags's distress.

We find Peeta squeezing Annie's hand, but she is crying just the same, her hair straggled and in locks around her head. Sweat builds on her brow, her screams real and loud and true and meaning of only one thing.

She's giving birth.

Prim is suddenly replacing Peeta, who is trying to offer an explanation. All I can understand is that we need to get him back away before Mr. Undersee catches sight of him. But unlike his previous intrusion, which was unwelcome, this was needed. His actions of trying to comfort Annie, relieve her of the horrible, debilitating pains, is appreciated.

He placidly goes back to his room, kissing me softly in the threshold before I have to disappear. He locks the door and I turn to a place full of panic.

It's a usual set of chaos in the house. Only this time we have Johanna Mason scowling and shouting orders while not knowing anything at all. I think that is why the anxiety in her eyes is so stark and present. Annie is one of her only friends, not many she has of, and there is nothing she can do. She's powerless. And I know that pain.

I cannot help, seeing as I will not be able to last in Annie's room for more than three minutes, but exchange rags with Mags and bringing hot water. Prim and Mags stay in the room instead, and I run up and down.

Madge takes to making supper for those who are not being employed, by means of keeping her hands busy. She's the one who I can talk to when I try to breathe, try to be able to make sense of the situation as silence falls on us along with an accompanying yell.

"She has a strong voice," Madge says matter-of-factly.

I nod. I turn to Haymitch, who is standing and orchestrating a conversation with Mr. Undersee, a heated one, with his hands rising and falling. I don't care about interrupting, though, as I say quickly, "Haymitch, you need to go into town and bring back a doctor."

"Wish I could, sweetheart. But can't. Have you seen it outside? It's a blizzard out there. A death trap. You'd sooner freeze to death than leave the front porch," Haymitch says, pointing beyond to the windows, which reveal a thick blanket of white.

I stare at him. "All we have is Prim." I have faith in Prim's knowing, healing hands. But she is just a thirteen-year-old. And I will not force her to mature and grow into a situation so quickly.

"And Mags. And they're all we're going to have to use," Haymitch says, his voice disdaining my impatient one. He turns away.

I grab his shoulder and turn him back around. He comes around forcefully, pulling at my reach. It's so much easier to move him when he is drunk.

"I will not have my little sister be the main deliverer of a child," I say.

Haymitch sighs, swears, and then heads upstairs. Mr. Undersee sighs and goes to drink some tea as I run after Haymitch. Wonder what sort of strange solution there must be to this problem, which much be addressed immediately.

My stomach drops when I see him enter Annie's room, take one look at the strange, birthing girl, and roll up his sleeves, demanding of Johanna hot water. His hands are ready to do whatever it takes. I do not trust Haymitch, but I trust myself in a birthing room less. And so I can only watch in horror and disgust at the strange turn of events as Haymitch yells for me to get out if I'm not going to help.

Johanna throws me a look as I close the door. One that is non-interpretable.

The next few hours are spent in a singular limbo. One that is filled with sounds but no voices, footsteps but no words. Yelling, but nothing in English. Gibberish dropping from the agonized mouth of Annie. The impatience of Johanna as she comes and fetches hot water, barely offering a word of progress or lack thereof.

No one feels like going to bed. Not when going up there means suffering the wrath of Johanna, who Gale, upon seeing once he went up there to fetch something of amusement for Posy, found stalking up and down the hall, pacing and opening and slamming Annie's door with a fierce fervor. A lioness guarding the door, not allowing any prey to pass by to be not captured by her sharp eyes.

Rory, Vick, and Posy sit around the coffee table, amusing themselves the best they can with a small game that Gale and I have fashioned out of rags and leftover paint I found in a bookshelf beneath a broken painting. They make puppets and make them squeak and giggle, though Rory's attempts at this play are lesser than Posy, who is caught up in the wondrous world of imagination and yet not knowing much of the world outside of this farm.

I brave the weather to fetch firewood, though Gale and Madge vehemently protested. Gale had grabbed my arm, holding me in his grip as his eyes bored into mine. He would not let me out into the flying snow, risk my freezing to death. Haymitch's words echo in my mind.

I wait until he goes upstairs until I leave. And my return is met with the retortful scolding of both Gale and Effie while I sit by the fire, holding up my hands and rubbing them to get feeling back into them. I didn't have to chop the wood, but had gathered as many logs as my arms could hold. They stand by the fire, all stacked up. Ice melting drips from them by the fire's heat. Buttercup yawns like a snarl, and then bounces atop the logs and curls into himself. I purposely ignore him, hoping that Gale's disappointment in my decision will not drive the murder of my hand against Prim's cat.

But finally his words subside, lose their passion. Instead his hand finds my shoulder and massages it, pressing his fingertips into it. This little sign of affection, such touches I am used to from Gale. They are his way of saying I'm sorry, words that sound so foreign on his lips. But the meaning of his touch tells me everything. That after everything that has been informed to him during this trip, he's afraid for my life. That someday one of my stupid decisions, like going into the storm of country Sussex, will kill me.

I reach over my shoulder the best I can and press my too-large woolen mitten over his hand.

Supper is slow. Boring. No one eats much. But Gale and I press each child. But not Madge. She cooks but doesn't feel like eating. But she drinks many cups of weak tea, which we are losing. I will have to get more at the Hub once this storm lets up.

Effie braves a trip upstairs. Her hair is disheveled and her hands trembling when she comes downstairs. She places a bright fake smile on her face, though, once asked by Gale if things are going well. But she's seen the face of true torture. And that's too much for innocent country Effie Trinket.

The evening passes slowly. The storm obstructs the signal of the radio. Johanna hadn't gone out for any news today. Wouldn't have even mattered if she did. I sit on the sofa knitting until Posy crawls into my lap and declares in whispering tones that she is scared of the storm.

"There's no need to be scared of it. It's snow falling from the clouds," I say as she watches me from my shoulder. "Just white fluffy snowflakes, all coming down to make everything white and bright and clean."

"Why's it so loud outside, Katniss?" Posy asks, her voice so soft and sweet and innocent it hurts.

"Because of the wind," I say, laying my head against hers. My hand rubs circles into her back, calming her as well as myself. "Just the wind, Posy."

The night passes by, then, with us only going up to get into our night clothes. Neither Gale nor Effie make comment on the children staying up so late. They wouldn't be able to fall asleep anyway, with the anxiety of the moment and Annie's agonized noises filling the entire upstairs of the house, making it practically uninhabitable.

I wake up on the couch to Gale's hand on my shoulder, strong but gentle in shaking me awake.

"Katniss." His voice is patient.

Immediately the thoughts of the evening prior hit me. I whirl to face him, careful of the little child against my chest.

"What happened? Is Annie fine? Did she give birth?"

"I don't think with all that noise last night she didn't give birth, Katniss." Gale, for once, is teasing me. Like he used to. He plays with a lock of my loose braid and says, "She did, yes. A little boy. Surprisingly healthy, despite how she carried him."

A little boy. And I can only imagine copper hair on the top of a red, tiny-fisted, fat baby.

I meet the little boy an hour later. Breakfast being taken care of, dressed in my woolen things, I bend over the bed. The resemblance between Finnick and the tiny child is startling. He's so tiny, but his eyes are the same green as Finnick's were. His hands open and close, capturing a lock of his mother's hair. His hair is darker than Finnick's. But Annie's is dark brown. It's expected.

Annie looks thinner, more ragged than she had. But she glows with a natural maternal air as she snuggles the child to her breast. She rubs his head with her hand. Whispers soft words to him, kisses his hair. She looks at him with such childlike but also maternal awe that it is strange that this woman used to be hushed away in a dark room in Mags's house.

Mags. She stands by the bed, holds a cup for Annie to drink from when her attention isn't fully upon her tiny baby. She beams like a grandmother. Her own wrinkled, gnarled hand rubs the child's cheek, tears shining in her eyes.

Johanna grins from the corner. "About time. Over sixteen hours of labor," she says, shaking her head. "Haymitch cursing the entire time." The man, after sighing and scarfing down porridge, is catching up on his favorite pastimes in his study. Drinking and sleeping. "I'm exhausted. Can't imagine what you feel like, Annie."

Annie doesn't seem to hear her. She kisses her son's forehead.

"What's his name?" I ask Johanna.

"Don't know. I've been waiting for the name for three hours," Johanna asks. She sighs. "He looks like Finnick." I never thought that Johanna could look wistful. But the look on her face proves me wrong.

"Annie," Johanna says, loudly, but not startlingly so. She captures the mother's attention. Johanna nods to the bundle of knitted blankets. "What's his name?"

"Finnick," Annie says, her voice light, as if this is a fact Johanna should know already.

Johanna purses her lips and looks at the ground. I pretend to not notice the tears forming in her eyes.

I get to hold the child. At first, a scared, panicked feeling fills me, but then as the child is laid in my arms, the feeling of such a tiny baby in the crook of my arm is familiar. I remember when I first held Prim, just yet barely four, and being able to hold her with perfect ease. Carry her around, even. Now my arms are so much older, but relaxed in holding the tiny baby.

I'm amazed by how little he is, how innocent. How all he can think of is sleep and milk, how he recognizes only the touches and voice of his mother.

He yawns slightly, then falls asleep, light as a feather. Calm. Quiet. Peaceful. A picture of perfect innocence.

**THUS THE BABY IS BORN. And I didn't do a birthing scene because I'm in Katniss's point of view, and Katniss + medical stuff = grossed out!Katniss, and I'd rather her downstairs taking care of things than gagging and making sarcastic, bossy remarks. XD**

**Thanks for reading! **


	14. The Train Station

_**Soli Deo gloria**_

**DISCLAIMER: I do NOT own The Hunger Games.**

**Guys, horrible news.**

**This is the last chapter.**

**:7**

The train station smells the same as it did months ago. Back when my mother and Hazelle were there to leave off us to Sussex, waving us away after hugging and peppering our cheeks with kisses. Kisses of remembrances. Touches to remember of our mothers.

Months ago. I remember. My father. Seeing him for the last time. See him in his soldier's uniform, a dark green, black-billed hat on his head. A bag by his feet. His dark hair against Mother's blonde as he kissed and embraced her goodbye. His squatted position to Prim, telling her of the things she is good at, how he is so proud of her. And then of him turning to me. Hugging me fiercely. Telling me to protect my mother and sister. Telling me of what good I do, of how he is relying on me. To take care of them. And then of him kissing my head, looking at us all with such a serious smile.

The smoke. The figures of faceless British soldiers. The tears. The laughter. The chilly air. All this makes me shudder.

"Cold, Catnip?" Gale asks, making me turn to him. His arm in its sling looks a dirty gray. His coat has damp spots from the melted snow. His hair, dark and just like mine, is ruffled.

"No," I say. I hug my oversized coat closer.

Posy pulls impatiently on the hem of Gale's coat.

He bends down to her size, and she whispers, "Can you tell Mummy that I love her very much?"

"Of course, Posy," Gale says. He ruffles her hair with his giant hand and straightens. Grabs Haymitch's hand, a serious look on his face, shakes the hand. Receives a blubbering, smiling Effie. Shakes the hand of Johanna, who looks like she wants to get out of the cold. Hugs his brothers. Hugs Prim. Peeta and Mr. Undersee and Annie and Mags were wished goodbye at the house.

This leaves Madge and I. Madge has pink in her cheeks, making the rest of her hair and face all white. She, too, hugs her chest, as she says, "Goodbye, Gale."

He stares at her a moment, his eyes flickering over her face. "Goodbye, Madge. Perhaps I'll write to you when I can in London."

"I'd write back. If Katniss can secure ink and paper," Madge says, nodding.

Gale turns to me. "You can get those things, can't you, Katniss?"

Of course I can. I nod.

He nods, and his eyes are looking past me. Like he's thinking of something, something he has to decide upon before he leaves the train station. Then he turns his eyes back to me. They flicker up and down my face. I cock my head. What's he thinking of?

He leans a little closer, then shakes his head. He kisses my cheek, whispers, "Goodbye, Katniss." His smile contains more sorrow than I wish it would.

"Goodbye, Gale," I say.

He nods and his eyes are all I can see when we're waving at him, the train passing us as it whisks him away. I don't see his hand, how it waves back. I don't see the children running to keep up with the train, don't hear Effie's voice chastising them or Haymitch's, no doubt telling her to leave them alone.

All I can see is the hesitation in his eyes.

* * *

Madge is leaving us. First Finnick. Then Gale. Now Madge. Leaving still a heavy-filled house, but one lacking in her presence, which I will miss more than I can imagine or say.

Her father wants to leave here. Go to leave with his parents near the sea. Haymitch talks to him at night about it, how the sea might not be the greatest idea, with a world war around us. Enemies sure to invade our shores. Enemies invading our shores. But Mr. Undersee insists that this beach is not near any battle site, has no great promise for being one. He'd rather be there with Madge. I can tell. I understand that he doesn't want to stay in the house of the man who would have been his brother-in-law, except for the bombing of Maysilee Donner.

The plan is them to leave by train, with plenty of bribes in the suitcase of Mr. Undersee, in a week. So the week is filled with activity. Readying Madge's clothes, packing her up. Getting her ready for her traveling. Effie talks excitedly about seeing around England, how nice it will be. But all I can imagine is the bombed cities, the soldiers everywhere. The drills she'll see, the families with no husbands or fathers or sons or brothers anymore. How much Madge will see of how the war has affected England as she passes through it.

Madge imagines it, too. Because the smile on her face is forced, faked, for Effie's sake. Always for Effie's sake.

Madge spends long evenings after long days in the house with Peeta and I, in his room. With only a candle, we talk. And there's laughter. Conversation. Madge and Peeta ask each other a lot of questions. And because they're both nice people, too hurt by this war to feel anything about it more than wanting it over, there is no animosity. Not even a spark. No Jew, with the Star of David stitched across his shirt's chest cloth. No Nazi hair on Madge's head. Just their two voices, both so clear and brilliant.

In the snow, I take Madge through my routine outside. Of hunting, waiting for the animals and digging for the animals in the bitter, packed snow. Trudging to the Hob, trying to avoid the soup Greasy Sae has stewing away in a back corner (making Madge widen her eyes and look startled at hearing that its main protein is dormouse, caught in that very tiny stall), purchasing ink and paper. Small things she will need to pass the time by the beach.

"What would the address of Gale's be?" Madge asks me, clutching the ink and paper close.

I catch her eye, raise an eyebrow. Madge says, "He wanted me to write to him."

She's right. He did. And I have no reason to say anything to contrary this agreement. So I tell her Hazelle's address. She seems to think it over, tuck it back into her brain, and then she follows me as we walk amongst the dirty, filthy stalls of the Hob. She takes in the sights for a final time. The seller of tiny trinkets, the seller of animal hides that I bring him to tan and sell. The seller who has a variety of pots for sale. Paper supplies. Cloth. Anything one can't find for a good price in wartime.

I imagine trying to leave this place, going off to live near ocean waves and ground of sand. How strange it would be to not hunt out in the freezing cold, wear boots against the rocky ground, smell the dew of the morning. The beach sounds so . . . distant. Cold. Windy.

The day the Undersees leave, Effie and Prim and I get up early and prepare a big breakfast. Use our meat and egg rations. Gale hadn't wanted anything for his leaving. But for what it's worth, it's something to see a smile on Madge's face.

The train station. A constant place to gather to see people off. See loved ones for the last time in a long time. I hug Madge fiercely. She's been a quiet friend, but a friend nevertheless over the last few tiring months.

Mr. Undersee shakes Effie's and Haymitch's hands. Effie hugs and kisses Madge, patting her cheeks and wiping away tears.

"You get so damn emotional, princess," Haymitch says as Effie steps back.

"Oh, shush," Effie says, sniffing into her handkerchief.

Prim hugs Madge, tears shining in her eyes. Rory and Vick respectfully shake her hands. Posy grabs her leg and tries to keep her from going, moaning her name. Johanna peels her off, saying, "Come on, tyke. Let her go." Johanna looks up to Madge and holds out her hand. "Goodbye, Undersee."

"Johanna," Madge says, taking and shaking it.

"Take care, huh?" Johanna says. She nods and pays more attention to Posy, who sucks her thumb, as the train is loaded with the two Undersees and their baggage. A couple of suitcases. One of them Mrs. Undersee's. And a bag, with a satchel at Madge's side.

When we get home, Peeta is freely walking around the house. The first time in many weeks. And Mags is nary surprised. She smiles and pats his shoulder, and Peeta says to my raised eyebrow, "She discovered me when she went to the wrong door. She noticed it was locked and picked it."

"She's good with hooks," Johanna says, making Mags smile.

Peeta comes and finds me after dinner. On the back porch, my hands bloody and holding a knife, carving away the warm coat of a rabbit.

He leans against the doorway, a steaming mug in his hand.

"Close the door. You're letting snow into the house," I say. He doesn't. But I can't look up to face him, lest I cut myself. And I can feel his eyes, so soft and wondering, on my head. He wants to talk to me. About what? I don't know. But this day has been too much. The last of them have left. Maybe things will get easier from now on. Maybe we can get back into our routine.

We used to have a routine. I hunt. Prim cooks. Effie housekeeps and babies Haymitch. Haymitch drinks. The Hawthornes play. Johanna plays poker, smokes, and talks about the war.

But no more. Things won't ever be the same. Too much has changed.

Suddenly I realize my hands are trembling. My hands stopped against the animal's back, the knife sliding from my slippery hand and falling into the cold snow, dying and melting the white flakes into a dark, black red.

"Katniss," Peeta says, squatting right next to me. His hand finds my back, smooths circles into my father's old jacket. "What is it?"

"I'm just thinking," I say. "Finnick's dead. Gale's gone. Madge is gone. Mrs. and Mr. Undersee are gone. But Annie and Mags and Johanna and Finnick are here. You're here." I look up, meet his blue eyes with my grey ones. "What is this going to mean? What is going to happen?" The war. How will that go? Will we win? What will happen in the next years? Are we all really going to live together for who knows how many years?

It's strange to think that this war may go on for a dozen more years. A dozen more years of Victory gardens, of rations and British soldiers everywhere. Of huddling around the radio, waiting for news about what nation has hit heavily against another. A dozen years of stamps, of bombing against dear cities. Of work camps. Of soldiers killing, dying in battle.

_"Hof oif nissim un farloz zikh nit oif a nes," _Peeta says, meeting my eyes.

I squint, thinking. "What does that mean?"

"It's Yiddish. It means Hope for miracles, but don't rely on one," Peeta says, studying my face. He cracks a little smile, but it fades away back into the smoothness of his face as his hand travels from my back and rubs against my cheek. "That's all we can do, isn't it, Katniss?"

I don't say a word. Press lips against his hand as I turn my face. Then I meet his eyes and am engulfed in them. I nod. "That's all we can hope for."

* * *

In four years, a lot can happen. Prim can turn seventeen. Lady can die, give her life as a good meal for the large household in the manor. Posy can learn to ride a bicycle that her brothers have made her out of scrap metal. Rory can lie about his age and go off to war at the age of seventeen, entailing a rage from Gale, who manages to get him back from making it to training.

Haymitch can drink. Keep drinking, never run out of white liquor. Never become sober, never poison himself with excess. Effie can still be here, wearing less and less makeup as her supply dwindles. I find that she had a supply coming in from a still running theater in Wolverhampton. But now the makeup is too costly, and she stops. Her hair is a light blonde, her face terribly pale. But she smiles more, the curves above her chin no longer suppressed by the weight of the makeup.

I can still live in the manor, watch as Johanna keeps at her job and ignores every solid attempt at a relationship. For Johanna is too smart for men, to kiss them and get too attached to them by means of words and gestures, and then send them away to the fight. She instead spends her evenings playing with Finnick, who grows to be a jumpy four-year-old. He loves water and I have caught him from drowning in the pond on several occasions.

Annie spends so much time with little Finnick. The smile on her face, though, is always distant. As if the sight of the portrait image of his father reminds her far too much of his father. Sometimes I can find her in her room, withdrawn into a fetal position, and none of us can pull her out at all. Johanna takes care of Finnick, with Mags always pushing some small treat into his small fists. And eventually, after many days, Annie comes back to us. Though, sometimes her screams ring through the house in the middle of the night, telling us all of the nightmares torturing her.

But we all don't say anything about it later. She can't help it. Something exploded in her head when Finnick died. Something that was vital to her sanity. It cracked and let insanity leak into her when his death was told to her.

But more days than not she's smiling, playing with her son.

Peeta and I each mature in the face. His eyes, always so soulful, timeless, remain the same. But the skin around his face tightens, losing the childish fat. His muscles in being employed in keeping the farm running tighten in his arms. I rub my fingers against them at night, when I kiss him softly in the dark.

My hair still hangs in a braid over my shoulder, my eyes still the same inquisitive, ever-looking grey. My tongue, still as unreliable and wangling as usual. But I have a layer of safety, of sanity, added to myself as well. Peeta's calm demeanor has soothed my fiery temper, slowed and evened the pace of my ever-racing heartbeat, reminding me of the beauty of things, to look around and take in the land before it all falls away into the past.

He and I grow together. Not yet married. Not yet. But staying in the same house with him, my hands able to intertwine into his calloused ones, is good enough for me. Perhaps because of the war, of the worry citing over it. How things can come crumbling any second, that we don't get married. Perhaps the fact that I'm not sure about marriage. Marriage in uncertainty can be risky. I saw marriage in my parents, and they were ripped apart. Marrying Peeta would mean devoting myself to him, to firmly attach my ties to his. If he died, if this country was full-on attacked, and he died, it would be like cutting myself into two. Tearing me into two hard, rough, tangled pieces.

I can see it in his eyes, though. That he loves me. He tells me so. I can see it in the way he watches me. It's a strange combination of admiration, joy, endless affection. Softness. Warmth. Loyalty. And Peeta is so good. So good to see that in me. But I would fail in loving him the same way that he loves me. He doesn't deserve what little love I have, because it isn't enough. And I don't deserve his love, which wavers not and is far too much for someone as me.

The radio still works. Crackly and staticky as it is, it still tells us of a rough, worn voice, and its news to let known to England, to many different places. And it is the cause of Johanna's yelling one night in May, just the day before my birthday.

"WAKE UP! THE NAZI BASTARDS SURRENDERED! WAKE UP! THEY DID IT! THE NAZIS ARE SURRENDERING!" Her yells course through the entire upstairs. I wake up, startled, and grab on my dressing robe. Posy sits up, rubbing her eyes, and Prim is squealing, attaching herself to me as she says in a cautious voice, "Katniss, the Nazis surrendered!"

I wrap an arm around her and burst through the door to the hallway. Haymitch, dressed in long underwear and pants with no belt, is holding a candle. Effie is shrieking, tears coursing down her face as she jumps up and down. Peeta's face breaks out into a smile, and Prim lets go of me and hugs Johanna, and I race and jump into Peeta's arms. I feel tears of relief in my eyes. His arms grip tighter around me, saying, "Katniss, we won! We won!"

"I woke up to check on Finnick and Annie. I was making the kid something to eat with the radio on. And the Nazis are proclaiming international surrender," Johanna says. She takes in a deep breath, like the entire time the war was going on, she hadn't been able to breathe.

"Right, everybody, downstairs. The radio's still on, let's go," Johanna says, and we race down the stairs. I stumble out of confusion and joy. But my arm is around Peeta, my grip around him never faltering, his tightening.

This means so many things. Peeta can leave the house. Go about the town, get out of the prison he's been in for four years. This means peace, a chance back to a normal life.

The dining room table is full. The radio gains our attention, all of us leaning towards it. Mags cups a hand to her ear, barely able to hear as the static comes in. But we're all full of excitement, barely able to stay calm. Except Johanna. She's frowning; obviously something has happened that the rest of us are not aware of.

"But what about the Japanese?" Johanna says. She smacks the radio with the heel of her hand, shocking Effie and earning her a disapproving grunt from Haymitch, who doesn't like his possessions abused.

Johanna doesn't look apologetic. "But they just say that the Germans are surrendering. What about those damn Japanese? They're not still fighting, are they?"

Peeta and I exchange a look. His grip on me tightens, his lips in a thin line.

Johanna goes searching for more information that next morning. I go listening around the Hob, my purchases in a bag by my side and my ears attentive to any and all words concerning the war, which is all anyone can talk about. Faces that were once drawn into nothing but greyness and wrinkles smile without abandon. People walk the streets with a cheerful smile. It's relieving, but strange. As if we're in a daze, a limbo. And I want something. Something to move, one last move to seal the win of the game.

The radio is our constant companion, even more so now than ever. It is always on, always filling the kitchen with its voice. We all work around it, do our chores and such, but glance at it more than any of us let on. Prim knits but watches the radio. Effie talks to Haymitch, who ignores her behind the newspaper, about the newspaper's contents. But neither are thrown into the activity as they usually are.

Even calm, steady Peeta seems on edge. Waiting for something, his fingers constantly tapping on something or other, in anticipation. Sometimes I'll ask him how he is. Mostly because no one else will. He whispers back that he is fine. But I can tell otherwise. And usually I wrap my fingers around his or kiss him to let him know that the wait will finally come to an end. Some end.

I want an ending. But one may never come. Never count on miracles.

But then the radio captures all of our attention at once.

August the sixth. A Monday. The beginning of a week. Another week of Johanna grudgedly going to work at the war office, another day of Annie laughing and making mud pies with Finnick. Another day of Prim going to study under Dr. Aurelius in the village and then be back in time to help Peeta and I in packing up vegetables from the Victory garden in bags and boxes to put down in the root cellar.

But it's the day of the last finalizing step in the war.

An atomic bombing on Japan, courtesy of the American Army.

"Does this mean it'll all be over now?" Peeta asks, amongst silence. No one says anything this time. The death count is too high for there to be as much cheering. Too sobering a thought to celebrate.

I don't know. Johanna tightens her lips. Haymitch says nothing.

A bombing on a place called Hiroshima. Hiroshima. Hiroshima. Hiroshima. And Nagasaki. Those are the only names on everyone's lips for the next weeks. Their voices scared, uncertain. Because what does this mean? Will the war end?

The day of the end is calm. Peeta and I are finishing with the work about the farm. The horses's stalls are cleaned out. The barnyard is swept. He scared me by the chickenhouse, jumping out at me when I was gathering the eggs. That is why I am mad at him, staying a good three feet from him. The broken eggshells I had forced him to clean up. He had, and is still grinning when he glances at my face, still thinking it funny.

But I don't give him the satisfaction of giving in to his laughing.

The sky is blue and grey. Nice weather. Prim is coming up the road. Running, running, and Johanna is running faster than she is.

"IT'S OVER! THE JAPANESE HAVE SURRENDERED! WE WON! WE WON! WE WON!" Johanna shouts this last phrase over and over again, like she can't hear it enough. And when Johanna gets good news, she appraises it with a raised eyebrow, a sarcastic remark. Something to acknowledge it. But this time she can't help but see the happiness of this. How great this is.

And that is the last time I will ever see Johanna Mason so happy.

I drop the basket in my hand, the one that had held the eggs. I turn to Peeta, but I have no words. My throat is choked, my hands frozen, my body frozen. But Peeta is alight with life, and he hugs me like there is no tomorrow, when, in actuality, there now can be.

* * *

The entire house is filled with life. The entire town, so sleepy in the country, shouts with astonishment, screams with joy. But I don't want to hear from them. I want news of Gale. Madge. Her father. Hazelle. My mother. I want to be back with them all. Right now. For life is different now. Life was stopped, in a pause, waiting for the war to end. And now that is all stopped, now that everything has been ended to bring life back again, I want that life again.

* * *

"Katniss?"

Haymitch. I turn around, a bundle of laundry in my hands. Despite the news about the war, the life of the manor must carry on.

"Yes, Haymitch?"

He approaches me, doesn't seem drunk or tired. Instead steady, and well-rested. "It's been four years—"

"A long time," I say.

"—since you came to this house. I haven't been the greatest host. I know that, sweetheart," Haymitch says, sighing.

But he has been better than he thinks he is. He has been a bigger help than even I could imagine. But I appreciate him realizing this.

"Just saying, I mean, that I appreciate what you and the kids have brought to the house. Was worse before," Haymitch says. He nods and goes downstairs, muttering about getting something to eat.

I stand frozen for a moment.

I will never fully understand Haymitch Abernathy. I will never understand the total details of his engagement and how it ended, how he became such a hermit in his own house, with its torn paintings. I will never understand the total devotion to alcohol, or the need to swallow back every single emotion with a jug of brandy. But I do understand what he has said. Of how the arrival of the children and me isn't as bad as he ever made it out to be. Because our arrival has changed him for the better. And that was almost like a thank you.

When I should be thanking him. For taking us in. For mounting the burden of owing debt on my back and then letting me pay it back. For hiding Peeta, despite the danger. In the end, both of us, while not willingly, have bettered one another.

And neither of us can thank the other enough.

* * *

We're at the train station, awaiting three people. Three people that mean too much to me. So much that a lump grows in my throat. Peeta wraps an arm around me, careful not to disturb me as he thinks he does. His knuckles gently play against my shirt.

"How long has it been?" he asks.

Too long. Gale has come back twice. Stayed for a month or so each time. The last time had been recent. To carry Rory back home from going off to war and scolding him until he was red in the face and in a rage so hard and long that he had to walk through the countryside the entire night before he came back. I went after him, my best friend, caught him by the lake. And we watched the sunrise together on its banks.

My mother. Hazelle. It's been nearly four years since I've seen either of them. I wonder how they have changed. If their faces have been wrinkled, if their smiles still reach their eyes. Prim had a picture of our mother, but it faded away.

I hope my mother brings my father's old book. The one full of things from nature, of things from his hands and mind, passing knowledge onto the faded pieces of material he had picked up.

The train is due with the three of them in the next few minutes. Prim was worried we'd be late. I knew we wouldn't. Not when Effie Trinket, who is now trying to wring out her handkerchief, while smiling and snapping back at Haymitch, who, for once, has the decency to be sober, has us under her tight rein. Her schedule is forever followed. Or else.

Peeta has never seen any of these people. But he is excited. It is all he can be. That or sad. Because we have no news of his brothers or parents. He has supposed them dead all these years, but the war ending has filled us all with hope. And he and I are intent on finding out what happened to them. Because he is proud of his heritage, and his parents and brothers were, too, he hopes they didn't die. But perhaps their loyalty did get them killed in the end. For the sake of Peeta, who calms my restless sleep that is caused by stress and thoughts and sights and sounds and smells of London, I hope they lived.

But I highly doubt it. But hope is all I can have.

The train pulls in, and the faces are familiar. Hazelle's, of habitual maternal warmth; she smiles and kneels and catches her three children as they run at her, hugging her as closely as they can to their bodies, Posy whimpering, "Mummy, Mummy, Mummy."

My mother catches my eye first. The wrinkles around her blue eyes are more stark, more intense. I am stock still, unable to move. She moves towards me, a weak smile on her face. Like she is unsure of what to do. But she says, "Katniss," and she hugs me. Her arms feel strong and relieved around me. And the stiffness rolls off of me as my arms wrap around her as well. Maybe my grip tightens. Maybe because I realize it all now. Why she was so depressed after the death of my father. Because I have seen Annie. I have seen Johanna, how death can affect a person. And I've seen Gale. What true suffering can cause.

And I almost forgive her for it. For not being strong enough to fight it, when it is so much easier to give in to the sadness than to fight back at it. I forgive her, then, when she has fought for the past four years in keeping our country alive. How she has come back to us in that way. I can't be more proud, because she has done more than I have.

She pulls back and stifles a sob, brushing my face with her hand. "It's been so long," she says. "Now you're grown into a fine young woman."

I am now twenty, and am not as happy with what I have become as my mother is. But she is so happy I don't argue. Just nod. Even I can't keep a smile from appearing on my face.

Then Prim is running up and flinging her arms around her mother, whispering words of how glad she is safe. Mother turns to her, getting the shock of her life to see tiny Prim, the little girl I always vowed to protect, at my height now, who can carry a serious discussion with me and be just as much a comfort to me late at night when I used to be for her. Waking up from nightmares, she used to soothe me. Talk me out of them. But when she discovered that Peeta's presence was far quicker in calming me down, she calmly passed the baton over to him. But she and I still talk. She is far more wise and calm than I am.

My mother in the arms of Prim, I turn back to the only other passenger I care about. Gale. He has let his hair grow long, since his injury allowed him no more access into being a soldier. He sent me so many letters, many complaining of how he couldn't enlist again. I privately wonder if there is some kind of bloodlust instilled in him, or if it really is the patriotism.

We meet in a hug. Neither of us start it, but we're both in it. "Hello, Catnip," he says. His voice is far more lighthearted than it has been in five years. He draws back and tosses my braid. "It's over."

"It's finally over," I say. That's why they're all here. So we can all gather together and discuss further matters.

"Do you have any idea of what your future plans are, not that there isn't a war to plan for?" Gale wonders, his eyes searching my face.

My priorities lie as the same. "Take care of Prim, my mother. Get them a house, take care of them."

"That's really all you want?" Gale asks. I then follow where his eyes innocently flicker to. Peeta. He is now talking to my mother, an easy smile on his face as he shakes her head. He wears the Star of David proudly on his chest, never ashamed of it, after all this time.

I turn back to Gale. He nods, a little smile on his face. "It might be less than what he wants."

"What are you implying, Gale?" I ask. But I know the answer better than him.

"Katniss, Prim is grown up now. Your mother is well on her way to living her life without having you to protect her. She's proved herself capable. I know because I have seen her. Catnip, the war's over. Things are different now. And there is no way Peeta doesn't want to be a part of your life." There's something sad in Gale's eyes when he says that. He adds, "I've finally accepted that."

Accepted that? My eyebrows furrow. "What does that mean, Gale?"

He shakes his head. "Nothing. Anyway. So have you heard from Madge, recently? Has she heard the news?"

The news of her being able to walk in public again. Of course, more people will have aversion to former Nazis than innocent Jews. But over time, perhaps she can be accepted back into society without suffering the will of vengeful Brits.

"I hope so. She and I have been exchanging letters," I say.

"So have I with her," Gale says. "She hasn't changed over the past three years, Catnip."

"Is that a good thing?" I ask cautiously.

Gale seems, for once, oblivious to what my words are asking: if he and Madge have finally gotten over their animosity to each other, have changed into something different.

"A very good thing. Catnip, I may have been keeping something from you," Gale says slowly, as if waiting for my reaction.

I cannot see things so clearly except when they are right in front of me, especially with feelings. And I have had many pieces of paper, Madge's neat, patient writing on them, telling me of what hers are. Something I should have seen when she lived with us.

"Madge can speak faster than you," I say.

Gale sighs. "She got to you first?"

"Are you angry?"

He shakes his head. "Not at all."

It's a strange thing, to think of Madge and Gale together. But their private exchanges over the past three years must mean more than I think them, for there it is before me. The smile on his face, the thought of Madge in his head.

"Are you going to go visit her after your visit here is done?" I ask.

"I'm going to have it be one of the things for us to discuss. I'd like my mother to meet her," Gale says.

"I think your siblings would like that," I say. Something deep inside me is scared, that my best friend has someone now. But another something also deep down inside me is happy for him. Happy he found love when he used to be in a war filled with hate, when the slightest touch from his best friend set him on edge. He has changed, for the better.

We join the rest of the party here on the platform. The passengers exiting the train disperse around us as we form a circle, all hugging and talking and exclaiming. Mags is pleased to meet Hazelle, whose children she has grown closer to. Johanna says it's because she knew Finnick from a boy. Rory and Vick have the same vigor and charm as he did. Annie smiles, holds Finnick, introduces him to my mother, who loves babies. Effie cries and Haymitch curses but accepts hugs from everyone shoving themselves on him.

The wagon is too small for us all to go home in, but the walk is far more beautiful with so many to walk with. And despite our new arrivals, I fall back into the rear of the party with Peeta. His leg still impends on his livelihood slightly, like how now he cannot keep up with everyone. But he never complains, and therefore shames me by making every complaint I say seem wholly childish and selfish.

"It's a beautiful day," Peeta says, looking about. He still cannot get used to being allowed to go outdoors whenever he wants to. The idea still excites and fascinates him, and I realize how selfish I've been every time I've complained about going to the Hob or hunting in the deep woods, with the fresh air swirling around me and the sound of life in my ears.

"It is," I say. A far better day, for it has promise for tomorrow.

"You're going to have to show me all of the country," he says.

"And leave Prim and my mother?" I ask.

"No. We can take them with us," Peeta says, something shining in his eye. "And we can go all over England. Maybe to other countries as well."

Something dark enters my voice. "And see the wrecked fields of battle?"

"I was thinking of something else, Katniss," Peeta says. His hand holds me, leaning on it. For support. "I was thinking that perhaps we could find out what had happened to my parents. My brothers. Look into records. See if they survived."

I stop, meet his eyes. We've discussed this before, nearly said yes. And never have I seen him want something more.

If anyone deserves to have such a request granted, it's Peeta. He deserves so much. This little thing is all I can give him at the moment. So I will.

"We can do that," I say.

"Will you go with me?" Peeta asks.

"Of course," I say. Like it is the most natural thing in the world for me to say yes. Of course I will go with him. Because I've realized that after this entire war, after every long day and every long, dark, cold night, he has been with me. I will always need him. Always want to protect him, need him to protect me. I'll follow him to the ends of the earth.

"Stay with me, always?" he whispers, his eyes full of warm, his voice asking.

"Always," I say. Always.

His hand around mine tightens, encircling it fully. I squeeze his hand back.

Always.

**Psshhhhh, of COURSE they get married at the end. That's pretty much a marriage proposal, isn't it? **

**Guys, honestly, thanks for being here and reading every last word. Despite all the mistakes I make, you guys still read it. Kudos to you all. Thank God and thank you. Love you all. :3**


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